“You’re a dead man,” whispered the man.
“Yes. I’ve lived under a sentence of death for seven years now.”
The man almost turned.
“Don’t!”
And then Crispin noticed too late that familiar profile.
With a gasp, Crispin dropped the hand with the dagger and sheathed the weapon. He stepped back and bowed. “Your grace.”
Lancaster turned and glowered. Crispin slumped or tried to, but his shoulder caused him to yelp and he staggered back.
Lancaster’s glower turned to something else. “You’re hurt.”
“My shoulder. Dislocated it.” He fetched up against the wall.
“I can fix it.”
Crispin’s eyes met his and stayed there. Neither man moved. It was a common enough battle wound for a knight. Tumbled from one’s horse, a knight was lucky to have only dislocated a shoulder joint.
Lancaster’s bearded jaw slid. His teeth gleamed in a grimace below the mustache. No doubt, he liked this situation as much as Crispin.
The pain and dizziness made it difficult for Crispin to go on, and if run he must, he had to fix his shoulder. He nodded to Lancaster and the duke moved forward and took his arm.
“This one?”
Crispin nodded again.
“It’s going to hurt. And might I say, you deserve what you are going to get for putting a knife to my back.”
“Forgive me, my lord.”
Lancaster sneered. “Brace yourself.”
Crispin straightened, forced his back against the wall. Lancaster propped his foot to the plaster wall, took hold of Crispin’s arm with one hand and his wrist with the other. “Ready?”
“Do it.”
Lancaster yanked. Farther . . . farther . . . until they both heard a pop. It hurt like hell, but the relief was instant, except for a radiating ache across his back and chest. Crispin resisted the urge to roll his shoulder.
“Much thanks,” he grunted. He leaned against the wall.
Lancaster released him and stepped back. “What the hell are you doing here at court?”
Crispin almost chuckled. The breath he blew out nearly rumbled itself into an ironic snigger, but too much sourness wore it away. “On my honor—that is, whatever you may value of what my honor once was—I did not try to murder his Majesty. In point of fact, I stopped it. The assassin is still at large.”
Lancaster’s shoulders relaxed, but his pacing and posture showed anxiety still stiffening his body. “Much evidence to the contrary.”
“Evidence?”
Lancaster bore down on him. “God’s wounds, Crispin! You had no business being at court, and you had the cursed bow in your hand! Did you think that little detail could be overlooked?”
Crispin ran his dirty fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “I know it looks bad—”
“Bad? Catastrophic!”
“There’s little to be done now. My objective is to leave the palace. Alive.”
“You will have to take your chances with the king’s men.”
“I have no intention of being turned over to the guards. Unless that is your intention.”
“I haven’t decided. I haven’t yet reckoned why you are here in my chamber. Am I required to rescue you? How many times must I do so?”
Crispin tried to smile. “Seventy times seven.”
“Don’t be flippant.”
“Your grace, if you surrender me, I will most certainly be tortured.”
Lancaster heaved a sigh and turned toward the fire. He scowled into it. “I know that.”
Crispin followed him to the fire and stood behind his back. “Then you also know I will have nothing to confess.”
“Yes. I know that, too.”
“And then I will die.”
“Yes.”
Crispin spat an ungrateful chuckle. “Forgive me, your grace, but so far, your logic escapes me.”
“I cannot be seen with you. Especially today of all days. In case you haven’t noticed, you are accused of high treason and murder. I stood up for you once when you were guilty, but not again.”
Crispin walked to the other end of the hearth and stared into the flames. His voice was flat. “I see. Of course, this time I am not guilty.” He bared his teeth. “Miles Aleyn is the assassin. Are you surprised to hear it?”
Lancaster made no sound, so Crispin turned to look at him. The duke’s face maintained its glower. His dark beard and mustache framed his tightened lips. His bushy brows arched over his eyes with all the menace of a demon’s claws. “Strangely,” he said, voice quietly controlled, “I am not.”
Indeed. “I have more to say,” said Crispin. He reached into his pouch and tossed the arrow pieces to the floor.
Lancaster stared at them. The once smooth feathers were now crushed and twisted. “What’s this?”
“Portions of arrows that have been involved in several misdeeds. One was found in a dead French courier. Another tried to kill me, and another an innocent scullion. I’ve no doubt that if the arrow that tried to kill the king were pulled from the throne it would match these others.”
“So. What do these events have in common?”
“Nothing. Except these arrows. They belong to you.”
Lancaster looked up at Crispin. He didn’t growl or bellow as Crispin expected. In fact, he didn’t act in any way Crispin remembered from long ago. He merely blinked, dropped his gaze from Crispin’s, and stared into the hearth. The glow trembled yellow light across his craggy features and velvet cotehardie. “What is on your mind, Crispin?”
Crispin suddenly felt exhausted. The fire in his blood that had propelled him up the tapestry and out the window was ebbing. He felt no strength left in his limbs. “What is on my mind?” He wiped the sweat from his face and let his hand drop to his side. Sweet Jesu. Every horror is on my mind. “I wonder if I may ask a question.”
“You should take care, you know. To night alone you have been caught with a weapon of assassination and put a knife to my back. What next?”
“My lord, I know that time can change a man. Change him in ways no one would ever expect.”
“Yes,” said Lancaster slowly. “I expect it could. Circumstances, too, can change a man.”
“Make him different. Send him in different directions.”
“Yes.”
Crispin heaved a sigh. “And so I ask you, your grace, why were your arrows used so heinously in the last few days?”
“What proof have you that those arrows are mine?”
What indeed? The maker was now dead. And who would need to silence him? Who but a man hiding something from the light of day? “The proof is dead along with Master Peale. But he did identify them to me. Much good that is.”
Lancaster turned. His dark eyes revealed nothing. No spark. Not a twinkle. His lips twisted slightly and then parted. His voice was dangerous. “Do you dare accuse me, Guest? Do you?”
The sickening feeling in the center of Crispin’s gut throbbed. “I only know what I know, your grace. That those arrows are yours. That Miles Aleyn was hired by an unknown person seven years ago to plot against the king and probably hired by the same man today. That these arrows killed and tried to kill. And that Edward Peale is dead.”
“If that is all you know, then it is wiser to keep silent on the subject.”
“Your grace—”
“Do you have a death wish!” Lancaster fisted the hilt of his dagger but kept it sheathed. “Is it your desire to be slain here and now in my chamber? Who would accuse me then? An assassin killed? A man witnessed by all the court holding the foul murder weapon? I will be a hero. What’s to stop me, Master Guest?”
Crispin straightened. “Nothing. You may do what you wish, my lord. I am at your mercy. I only want to know if we are opposing forces. I do not desire it. You know how I feel.”