Sword of shadows, p.5
Sword of Shadows, page 5
‘Possibly.’
‘And that don’t bode well for the presence of Kat Pyke, now does it.’
Crispin hadn’t wanted to consider it. After all, she had killed a man. In self-defense, so she claimed. He had believed her … up to a point. But she was a mistress of lies and he couldn’t quite dismiss the notion.
‘I suppose I shall have to talk to her.’
‘Er … perhaps, sir, I should be the one to talk to her.’
He turned a scowl on Jack. ‘And just what are you insinuating?’
‘I’m not insinuating naught, sir, it’s just that … you have a weakness for women.’
Crispin doubled his scowl and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘A weakness. Are you saying I’d be compromised?’
‘We-ell, sir … it’s … it’s …’
Blowing out a breath, Crispin stalked up the trail away from the bloody pit. The man was right, of course. He was always compromising himself because of a pretty face. And how her face made him think of … of their past liaisons. Even now his cod stiffened at the thought of her.
He ground his teeth and nodded reluctantly. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, you may be right. Yes. I will send you to speak with her and investigate this other woman in Treknow. I’ll talk to others here.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m … I’m just trying to be a good Tracker, like you said.’
‘No need to dwell on it, Tucker,’ he rasped.
Jack needed little prompting. He mounted his horse and urged it up the road and back through the castle toward Treknow.
Crispin turned to watch him go and smiled grimly. That man knew him too well. But he conceded that he had the right of it. It was a good thing, after all, that Jack understood his master, for they would get much farther with a clear head.
Crispin sighed, adjusted himself, and turned to look down into the makeshift grave once more. He hopped down into it, now that it was devoid of the bloated corpse, and crouched down. The blood had spread all around under where the body had been, but he could detect the spade marks that Teague had no doubt left behind. But if it had been treasure someone had been seeking, there were no additional holes made, no dug-out corners and upturned soil. Had they killed Roger before they could look for the treasure that Teague claimed was here? If those plans had been waylaid, why not move the body? And why, if there was such desolation here on these plains and rugged hills, would they need to be bothered with a dead man? They could easily dig for their treasure and drop him back in the hole when they were done. Yet, clearly, this had not been the case.
‘What intrigue is here?’ came a voice from above him.
He scrambled for his dagger and spun clumsily in the hole. When he looked up, it was only the old man, Marzhin Gwyls. ‘God’s blood, man! You startled me. Where, by all the saints, did you come from?’ He swept his gaze over the empty plains and hillsides.
‘I was beyond yon hillock,’ Gwyls said, and gestured behind him. The land undulated with hills and rocks, like an ocean wave. ‘I came to see what the commotion was.’
‘A man has died. Murdered.’
‘Oh, blessed soul! Who, then?’
‘One of the men-at-arms. Roger Bennet, so he was called.’
‘What a shame. Murdered, you say? It is a very great sin to murder a man.’
‘Indeed it is. Did you see anything of it? It happened two days ago.’
‘No. But just a few hours ago, I did note a dead horse upon the beach. Just there.’ He pointed behind him toward the eastern cliffs.
‘Well, there is the mystery of the missing horse solved.’
‘Dear me. Dear, dear me. Such a thing should not be.’
Crispin levered himself from the hole and dusted off his hose and cloak. ‘So did you see anything two days ago? A man on a horse hereabouts, with others?’
‘Is this where he was found?’ Gwyls stepped gently into the hole like a much younger man and scoured about, kicking at the chalky earth and at the blood-soaked soil. ‘Such a terrible thing in such a terribly lonely place.’ He raised his chin and looked skyward, as if beseeching God, before he surveyed the squared hole again. ‘What goes on here, Master Guest?’
Should he say? It wasn’t his story to tell. But surely Teague had discussed his comings and goings with the caretakers. ‘My employer likes to … dig. To … find things.’
‘Rather like you. Only you find people and sin.’
‘Perhaps it would be a better life searching as Carantok Teague does, for the past.’
‘Does he? Look for the past? How extraordinary.’
‘He … finds things of worth. Objects.’
Gwyls’s pale blue eyes seemed to glitter from the sun’s passing in and out of the rush of clouds. ‘Objects from the past? Ah, now I see.’
Crispin said nothing more, feeling perhaps he had spoken too much already.
Gwyls crouched down, looking at the soil beneath his feet in the hole. ‘Look here!’ He scratched away at the soft earth. Fingernails now lined with dark dirt, he uncovered what looked like a rusty sword pommel.
Crispin quickly joined him and dug away with his hands, revealing more of the crusted hilt. It couldn’t be, could it? Could this be the fabled Excalibur that Teague had been hunting for?
They both dug it out … and found a decayed blade with not a bit of shine remaining. The wet earth had done its damage, turning it to rusty, pitted iron. When Crispin pulled it free and held it aloft, it was a pitiful remnant of a weapon.
‘Isn’t that a shame?’ said Gwyls. ‘Why would someone leave a weapon in the ground?’
‘There could have been a battle and it got buried accidentally. Or … this could have been a grave, I suppose. After all, there was much found with it …’ He stopped. Now he’d truly spilled it. He winced as he looked toward the old man.
He was smiling, damn him. ‘A hoard, was it? Jewelry and the like? Do you know, I once found a coin with the head of a Roman emperor on its face?’
‘I’ve said too much. I beg you not to tell anyone.’
‘Fear not, Master Guest. I would not impede your employer nor get you into any trouble. If your man wishes to search for lost legacies, he may dig all the holes he likes. He’d just better make sure no more men are left for dead in them.’
Crispin shook the mud from his hands. How could he have forgotten? One glint of some secret trove and all thoughts of the dead man and his murderer had flown out of his head. What was wrong with him? A lust for the secrets of the treasure, perhaps? Or was it just to solve another mystery? He’d rather it were the latter.
‘Tell me, Master Gwyls. Have you ever … has it ever crossed your mind that King Arthur might have left behind, well … relics, for want of a better term?’
‘Arthur?’ He stroked a hand down his beard. ‘There have been many men since, remaking Tintagel over and over, turning the earth as well as moving stones. How could anything remain?’
‘Still, it is rumored.’
‘That’s what your man seeks, eh? Well, it should prove interesting. Though I should caution him … and you. There are relics of the past that are best left in the earth. The others, the watchers, guard them. They do not desire that the eyes of man should look upon them again.’
Crispin frowned. ‘What … what manner of thing are you saying, Gwyls? Who watches? Who guards? Not those men in the castle?’
‘Oh no. Not them. They are … well. I shouldn’t like to speak ill of the dead – bless the dead man’s soul – but the others. The druw.’
‘So you said before. Pagans? Truly?’
‘I am saying, Master Guest, that there are some mysteries that cannot be solved.’
He eyed Gwyls critically. Anyone could have slain Roger for all sorts of reasons. Could Gwyls be capable? He scoured the man’s staff with its heavy wooden head. Where was the instrument that caused Roger’s death? No club was found. It could have been a rock, he supposed, but that staff might have done the job if swung with power and taken the man unaware.
Marzhin laughed suddenly. ‘You think mighty loud, Master Guest. No, I didn’t kill your corpse.’
Crispin narrowed his eyes. ‘One must entertain all possibilities—’
‘Plausible impossibilities should be preferred to unconvincing possibilities.’
Crispin’s tense shoulders relaxed. ‘Aristotle,’ he murmured.
‘Indeed. I subscribe to all philosophies. I find truth in the strangest of places.’
Crispin nodded. ‘So do I.’
Gwyls chuckled. ‘I suspected you did. You cannot hope to be as successful as I have heard you are without having an open mind.’ He tapped at his own temple.
Pagans, eh? He dug in his pouch and brought out the brooch. ‘Have you ever seen the like before?’
Gwyls took the brooch in his lined palm. ‘Yes. Yes, I have seen similar pieces. It is an unusual design these days,’ and he pointed with his other hand to the horse head. ‘A symbol from the Saxon days of Britain.’
‘Are you saying it is old?’
‘Could be. Did you find this in the ground?’
‘No.’ He took it back and studied it once more, turning it in his fingers. Finely wrought, he did not think anyone nigh the castle could afford such a piece. He stuffed it away again.
‘It seems old. Of the druw style.’
‘I keep hearing mention of these pagan people. Do you still insist that they are living today?’
‘I entertain the notion, Master Guest.’ Gwyls wore a half smile curving the edge of his mouth, but said nothing more as he leaned on his staff.
‘Enough of this,’ said Crispin, scowling. ‘What of this dead man? If he left the castle so openly, how is it he returned so secretly?’
‘Who has said he left openly?’
Gesturing up the hill toward the parish church, Crispin saw the cart’s slow progress. ‘Your constable and his man say so.’
‘Did they? What was it they said?’
Pondering now, Crispin walked through their response. ‘You’re right. They only said he left two days ago. Thomas said he saw him. I suppose I shall have to enquire if there are more witnesses to that, or merely that it was known he was to leave.’ He gave a lopsided grin. ‘Thanks for that. I seem to have grown impatient in my enquiries these days. Not as careful as I used to be.’
‘I find that difficult to believe. You are hard on yourself, sir.’ He nodded and turned away.
Crispin watched him go in his slow amble, thinking that the old man was much too charitable to him. But if he were to truly redeem himself, he’d best get back to the castle and make enquiries.
FIVE
Jack Tucker rode unchallenged back through the gate and out of Tintagel to the main road, before turning on his saddle to look back. Such a strange place, where no one seemed to care who came and who went. He’d have to mention that to Master Crispin, for perhaps no one had truly noted when or if Roger had left at all to find his sweetheart.
His horse plodded along the road, and he rode lazily with it, a little proud of himself of how he sat on a horse these days.
The wagon with the players was still there at the inn. He tossed his horse’s reins to the stableman and walked through the mud to get inside. The cold fell away, and the smells of food and smoke filled his senses. He loosened his mantle and relaxed in the warmth, and when his eyes adjusted to the darker interior, he scanned the room and found Kat Pyke sitting in a circle of men. ‘Naturally,’ he muttered, and strode toward her.
It took her a long while to finally look up, and when she did, her eyes traveled over him in a way that made him most uncomfortable.
‘Master Tucker. My, my. How you’ve changed.’
He self-consciously ran his hand through his ginger beard and shuffled his muddied boots. ‘No more than I should have. I beg, demoiselle, to speak with you. In private.’
The men made remarks and laughed when she gave them all a wink and rose, walking between them to reach Jack. She stood toe to toe with him and looked up at his tall frame. ‘Wherever shall we go for this private … talk?’
The men made more salacious noises as Jack rolled his eyes. ‘Outside, then,’ he grumbled, clutching her arm. He dragged her out and it wasn’t until they made it to the courtyard that she wrestled her arm away from him, kneading it above the elbow. ‘Your grasp is tight, Master Tucker,’ she said stiffly.
‘I beg your mercy, demoiselle. But I am here on serious business. When exactly did you arrive to town?’
She clenched her cloak around her and leaned against the stable wall out of the wind. ‘You and your master saw me yourselves. We arrived at the same time. Oh yes, I saw you two on your horses with that man and his cart.’
‘Very well. And what brings you to Treknow?’
She made a face and shook her head. ‘Master Tucker, this sounds very much like an inquisition, rather than a talk among old acquaintances.’
‘It is that, Mistress Pyke.’
‘Whatever for? Has someone died?’ She said it in jest. He was almost sure of it.
‘In fact, yes, they have.’
Her flirtations halted. She pushed away from the wall and rushed up to him, anxiety framing her eyes. ‘Who? Where is Crispin?’
‘My master is well and investigating elsewhere.’ She seemed to relax at those tidings. ‘He asked me to come here to talk to you, because it involved a man and perhaps items of worth … the kind you are fond of stealing.’
‘Shush!’ She glanced about, but no one, not even the stableman, was near. ‘Master Tucker, I’d rather my past did not come to light in this company. They hired a musician and that is what I am. Why would I be suspected of such foul play?’
‘Because of that very past, demoiselle.’
‘Why didn’t Crispin come himself?’
Jack hesitated. But like any soldier looking for the merest chink in the armor to thrust her dagger, she pounced. ‘Oh ho! He didn’t wish to come himself. Afraid of such a little slip of a thing as me?’ She threw back her head and laughed, full-throated.
Jack felt his face heat and he longed to shut her up, but he couldn’t get up the nerve to strike her. ‘Keep quiet, or I’ll be forced to quiet you.’
The look in her eye told him he had used the wrong words. And when she laid a hand to his chest and gazed at him with sultry eyes, he was certain of it. He grabbed her hand, squeezed it hard and tossed it away. ‘I am a married man, wench, and proud to be a sinless husband. Keep your wiles to yourself. Oh, there is a devil in you, and I’m glad I spared my master from the likes of this.’
She laughed. ‘Oh Jack, you silly man. You must know that my heart is set on Crispin. Any other man is a very poor substitute.’
That made him scowl all the more. ‘Enough of this. Now answer me quick before I forget I am a calm and gentle man. Did you have aught to do with the death of Roger Bennet? Did you do it for the treasure?’
She seemed shocked at first, with moist lips open and eyes like bezants. But then the word ‘treasure’ appeared to have broken through, and her eyes narrowed with calculation.
Christ, Jack, he admonished himself. What have you done?
‘Treasure? What treasure could that be?’
‘Erm … keep your mind on what’s important. Did you kill – or cause to be killed – that man?’
Her jaw tightened. ‘When I killed in the past, Master Tucker,’ and she poked him in the chest, ‘it was to protect myself. Have you got that understood?’ She stopped poking and raised her hand. ‘I swear by God Almighty, I never would have killed a man for anything. Even his treasure. Only to protect myself and my honor.’ She straightened her cloak and rolled her shoulders. ‘I don’t know nor have I ever heard of Roger Bennet until this moment. Now then. Have I answered your questions, Master Tucker?’
‘So … so you know of no, er, treasure? That’s not why you’re here, then?’
She carefully folded her arms over her bosom. ‘If I were – which I’m not – why should I tell you?’
‘Demoiselle, you make it most difficult to believe you.’
‘Believe what you like. I murdered no one. You haven’t the right to throw accusations at innocent women. I think we’re done talking.’ She turned to leave, but then came at him so suddenly he wasn’t prepared for her to grab the front of his cloak and drag him forward. He stumbled, ending up looking her in the eye as he bent forward, helpless under her assault. ‘And if your master has any more questions for me, he can grow the bollocks to ask them himself. And not send an errand boy.’
‘Oi!’
‘You can tell him that. Or I just might do so myself.’ She let him go, dusted her hands, and stalked across the courtyard back to the inn.
He straightened his cote-hardie and rubbed his beard again. ‘God’s blood,’ he muttered, feeling strange and discomfited. She did have a way about her.
It had begun to drizzle. He looked up accusingly into the gray sky and pulled his hood up. ‘What, by all the saints, will I tell Master Crispin now?’
He mulled it for a while before girding himself and venturing into the inn once more to seek out the innkeeper. He ignored the whistles and catcalls from Kat Pyke’s male friends, and found the man near the back door. ‘Good sir, would you know of the woman in the village who spends time with a soldier up at the castle, a man called Roger Bennet?’
‘Well, lad, that isn’t my area of interest. But I’ll wager the wife knows. She likes that sort of gossip. Here! Gertrude! Where are you keeping yourself?’
‘I’m keeping m’self where I always keep m’self,’ said a slim woman with a white kerchief pilled on her head, arms full of crumpled linens. ‘Doing the work.’
‘Here, Gert. This man wishes to know who the girl is that keeps a man from the castle busy on Mondays.’
‘What man?’ She looked Jack over. ‘Why’d you want to know?’
‘It’s very important that I speak with her. The man in the castle is called Roger Bennet.’
‘Oh, him! Well then.’ She shoved the laundry into the innkeeper’s hands, and wiped her own chapped fingers down her apron. ‘I seen him – and a right handsome lad he is, too, like you, young sir.’ She winked. ‘And that milkmaid, Janet Penhall. She’s a fair lass. Red hair … like you.’
