De Marcherne panted and stood over them with the blade levered forward. He smiled. “I could have killed you all with one long stroke. But where is the merriment in that?”
Crispin recovered his feet first and slid against the wall. Another place he did not want to be. He raised the poker again. He was beginning to have his doubts about winning.
De Marcherne never lost his smile. He was able to assess the situation, too. He seemed to sense-as Crispin used to do-the moment a duel was about to end. Crispin adjusted his sweaty hands on the poker. He knew it wasn’t going to end well.
De Marcherne raised his weapon and Crispin cringed, but instead of the slash of steel across his midsection that he expected, de Marcherne threw back his head and howled in pain.
Crispin looked down. Jack’s knife slammed deep into the man’s foot through his boot and pinned him to the floor.
Crispin didn’t hesitate. He swung. The poker shattered de Marcherne’s knee. The man dropped as far as he could with his foot pinned to the floor. Finishing the swing, Crispin heaved the poker upward and connected with de Marcherne’s jaw. A sickening crack, and his head snapped back. His body arched for only a moment before awkwardly slamming to the floor, and lay still.
Crispin tossed the poker aside. Jack pulled his dagger free of the boot and stood up with it, eyes transfixed on the bloody blade. With trembling hands he hastily wiped the knife on his tunic. “Well done, Jack,” Crispin panted. He turned his eyes on the suddenly terrified Lady Stancliff. “Call in the sheriff. Or the palace guards. I care not which. Whatever de Marcherne’s game, it is now over. As is yours. I don’t care why you returned. If it was to kill him he is as good as dead now. If it was for some other pursuit…well.” His lip curled in a sneer. “I’m not interested. I suggest you leave for Chelmsford and stay there. I think King Richard’s court has tired of you. Stay with your husband, Lady Vivienne. If he will still have you. Pray that he does.”
He straightened his coat and flicked his hand for Jack to follow. One more to confront.
It took a quarter hour to reach the White Hart. Stopping before the door of the inn, he turned to Jack. “Go back to our lodgings, Jack. The sheriff may come to call and I would have you explain to him about de Marcherne.”
Jack eyed the inn, eyes scanning the windows. He measured Crispin and stood his ground. “Wouldn’t you rather have me here, sir? With you?”
Crispin felt his muscles tense. “No. Please, Jack.”
Jack bowed, as well as any page at court.
Crispin did not watch him depart, but pushed opened the inn’s doors and climbed the stairs to the gallery. He strode purposely across the plank passageway and stopped before Rosamunde’s apartments, lifted his closed fist, and pounded on the door.
To his surprise, Stephen opened the door and grinned upon seeing him. “Crispin! My God! I am actually glad to see you. Come in. Come in.”
Taking a breath, Crispin entered and glanced about. The door to the inner chamber was closed and no one stood in the parlor but Stephen and small leather bound chests and valises. They were preparing to leave.
“We return to my estates,” said Stephen in reply to Crispin’s appraisal of the room. “There is no more reason to stay now that all is well. I will fetch Rosamunde. She will be surprised to see you.”
Crispin smiled dryly. “Won’t she.”
He waited while Stephen disappeared behind the closed door. At the sound of a shriek, he spun and encountered a wide-eyed Rosamunde. He smiled unpleasantly at her look of horror.
“Beloved,” he said between clenched teeth.
She put her hand to her throat.
“No words?” he said, circling her. “You were so full of words before at the Boar’s Tusk. You had much to say. Surely there is more.”
Stephen frowned and stepped forward. “What is this, Crispin? What transpires between you? Rosamunde? Why do you look so pale? What does he say to you?”
“Yes, Rosamunde. Why don’t you tell your brother your story? Why don’t you tell him how you were willing to let him hang? Why won’t you say how you were willing to let poor Jenkyn take the noose in your stead?”
Stephen grabbed Crispin’s shoulder and squeezed painfully. “What lies are these? I thought you had become our friend again.”
Crispin shook him loose and strode toward Rosamunde. She recoiled. “Tell him, Rosamunde. Tell him how you killed Gaston D’Arcy. Tell him how you slew that despicable apothecary. Tell him how you poisoned me.”
Breathing hard, Stephen stared at Crispin. “Why do you say this?”
Crispin twisted towards Stephen. “Because it is true. This precious creature tried to kill me to save you, but she would have easily let you die for her crime. You or Jenkyn. She cared not which.”
“No!”
Crispin turned. Jenkyn emerged from the inner room.
“No. That cannot be true,” he said, imploring his mistress. “She tried to prove my innocence.”
“And if she failed,” said Crispin matter-of-factly, “she would have let you hang. Or poisoned you before you could implicate her.”
“No.” But this time his avowal was not nearly as robust.
Stephen went to his sister and took her shoulders. “Rosamunde. Tell him what a liar he is.”
Rosamunde closed her eyes and breathed. She wore her green gown again, the one he favored. And the jewels she so hastily gave to Crispin graced her neck. Now he wished he hadn’t returned them. His gut churned. He realized those jewels would be the last thing she would wear around her neck. Almost the last thing.
Slowly she opened her eyes. Calm descended within them and her look of horror fled. “How did you do it, Crispin? That is twice you cheated certain death.”
“Rosamunde!” Stephen shook her, but she only gazed up at him with a curious smile.
“You do not know what I have endured,” she said. “Gaston promised so much. And yet he took so much.”
Her words were muffled when Stephen gathered her hard against his chest. “Rosamunde,” he whimpered, lips trembling. “For God’s sake, say no more.”
“It’s too late for that,” said Crispin.
“So now your revenge extends to my sister,” he cried over his shoulder. “I thought you were done with this.”
“So did I. But a man has a change of heart when his former love tries to murder him. How many more would have died, Rosamunde, to satisfy you? Rupert of Kent was another, but you did not poison him. No. For him, you used a blade and stabbed him in cold blood. How many more? Stephen? Jenkyn? Your betrothed when he ceased to entertain you? How many?”
Crispin’s words changed the expression on Stephen’s face. He glanced at Jenkyn’s puzzlement before turning to Crispin. “Rupert of Kent?” he asked softly.
“The apothecary who sold her the poison. I was there when he was killed. I saw the back of the killer’s hooded head and no more. I did not even know it was a woman, but there was still something familiar about it that struck me, though I never would have connected it had she not confessed it to me while I lay dying at the Boar’s Tusk.”
Stephen released Rosamunde and stepped back to stare at her. “Tell him he lies. Why will you not tell him he lies?”
She shook her head and Stephen turned a desperate face to Crispin. “We will go away then,” he said. “Will that satisfy you? Does our history together mean nothing?”
“History,” Crispin sneered. “It is a matter of responsibility. You were willing to die for love of her,” he said to Stephen, “as I might have done at one time. But she was not willing to do the same for you.”
“A woman hasn’t the courage of a man.”
“It has less to do with courage and more with self-interest.”
Stephen stared at Crispin. At last, the knight turned to Rosamunde. His face paled with bewilderment. “You would have let me hang for a murder you committed?”
Rosamunde seemed to awaken and she moved imploringly toward him. He recoiled. She stopped halfway and pressed her hands together prayerfully. “I tried to prove you innocent.”