Sword of shadows, p.6
Sword of Shadows, page 6
‘And where can I find her?’
‘What you want to be finding her for? She’s already got a sweetheart.’
‘I … I merely mean to impart important information to her.’
‘I tell you what. You tell me, and I’ll tell her.’
Jack straightened, glancing toward the man for help … but there was none to come from that quarter. He was plainly besotted with his wife, and looked on at her with a smile of contentment. ‘Madam, I cannot do that. If you please, tell me where I can find her.’
She sagged. ‘Oh well. Then you can find the lass up the lane. The dairyman’s manor lies just over that hill, where the road curves. You’ll see the cows grazing.’
Jack bowed. ‘I thank you.’ He offered a sympathetic expression to the man and turned on his heel. Before he could leave the inn, Kat called out to him, ‘Jack! Make certain you tell Crispin what I said.’
He winced, but did not turn to her before leaving the inn to the laughter of the men around her.
Taking his horse from the stableman, he headed out of the courtyard and followed the muddy road. The rain came down heavier now with an icy hand, stripping the warmth from his sodden hands on the reins. He looked to his right, toward where the road curved behind a hillock, and took that fork. He rode a little way until he saw cows grazing behind a wattle fence. Behind the house, through a veil of rain, stood a wide barn. He urged the horse forward through the gatehouse that was little more than a wooden structure and took that gravel lane up to the manor.
When he reached the courtyard, a man emerged with a pitchfork leaning on his shoulder. He wore a hood with a hat over it, its brim dripping from the downpour.
Jack nodded to the man. He spared a hand to wipe the rain from his beard. ‘Good day, sir. I’m looking for the maid Janet.’
‘And why would you be wanting to talk to my daughter? I don’t recognize you.’
‘That is true, sir. I’ve come up from London with my master, Crispin Guest. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. They call him the Tracker of London.’
‘Tracker? What the devil does he track there?’
Jack was unused to people not knowing who his master was. He settled his face as he’d seen Master Crispin do many a time when interrogating a witness. ‘He tracks down crime, sir. He recovers lost objects, stolen goods … and finds murderers.’
‘Eh? What would you want with my daughter?’
‘Is she here, sir? It is a matter concerning Roger Bennet.’
The man frowned. ‘He’s betrothed to her. Or nearly so. Why doesn’t he send the message himself?’
‘Did he come round this way about two days ago, sir?’
‘No. We’ve not seen him since a fortnight.’
Jack huffed a breath and dismounted. He clutched the horse’s reins with icy fingers and looked the man straight in the eye. ‘Then it is my misfortune to tell you that Roger Bennet has been murdered up at Tintagel, about two days ago.’
‘No. Oh no. God have mercy.’ He crossed himself and lowered the pitchfork.
‘I am sorry to be the bearer of these tidings. But as you see, I must speak with your daughter.’
‘You mustn’t tell her. She … she’ll be devastated.’
Jack reckoned the man was in a similar state. He looked as if he’d lost a bag of gold, and he very well had. ‘I won’t, sir. I am my master’s apprentice and I was taught discretion.’
‘I’ll tell her. Gently.’ The man seemed to gird himself and motioned for Jack to follow toward the barn. Its doors were open wide, and cows, a donkey, a dog, and several chickens trotted here and there, in and out of the barn’s dark interior, smelling of wet barnyard.
Janet was on her stool, milking a cow that was chewing on long stalks of straw. She hadn’t yet noticed them as she picked up the bucket, carried it to a barrel, and poured the milk in. It steamed as it poured in a pillar of white.
She raised a hand to her brow and noticed them approach, lowering the wooden bucket.
‘Daughter, this man wishes to speak to you.’
Jack bowed. ‘My name is Jack Tucker, demoiselle, and I am apprentice to Crispin Guest, Tracker of London.’
Her ruddy cheeks seemed to pale as she stared at him. Jack knew that an official coming to call was never good news, so he tried to maintain a professional air, giving no emotion one way or the other.
Since she said nothing in reply to him, he cleared his throat and went on. ‘Is it true that you have seen nothing of Roger Bennet since a fortnight ago?’
Finally, she looked to her father.
‘Answer the man, girl,’ he said gently.
‘Well … aye. A fortnight at least.’
‘No message? No note?’ Though now he wondered if either could read.
‘No. My lord, what is this about?’
He gave a small smile. ‘I am no lord, demoiselle. Just … making enquiries.’
‘Has something happened to Roger?’
Before Jack could say, the man began to wail. ‘Oh child! All is lost! He’s been murdered!’
That’s what he calls telling her gently? Jack sighed.
She wailed, too, and fell into her father’s arms. The both of them wept and cried out, and soon the donkey joined them in its own braying, and Jack, standing like a useless post, decided enough was enough, and pulled his horse’s lead away and back toward the road.
He mounted and looked back at the dairyman and his daughter. Other workers began to gather and watch them curiously. He wasn’t certain what Master Crispin would do under such circumstances, but he wasn’t prepared to wait them out.
‘Come on, Seb,’ he said, kicking the horse’s sides and traveling back along the road. He swore he could still hear them wailing on the wind.
SIX
Crispin rode through the eastern gatehouse just as the heavens opened. He tugged his leather hood low over his face but it seemed his heavy cloak did little to discourage the wet permeating to his bones. He hunkered down over Tobias, grateful to have the horse. At least he wasn’t walking all that way in the mud.
He reached the mainland of the castle and its nearly empty courtyard. Smoke lingered near the rooftops … when there was a roof. He glanced again at the stable with the shaggy horses, toward the lodgings of the men-at-arms and urged the horse there. He dismounted, threw the reins over a post ring, and trudged up to the door. He knocked.
The door opened heavily, scraping the floor, and the burly guard filled the doorway. ‘Eh? Who are you?’
Crispin gave a cursory bow that was little more than a nod of the head. ‘Good sir, I am Crispin Guest, Tracker of London. Sir Regis—’
‘Yes, we were told of Roger.’ Another face behind the man emerged from the gloom.
‘May I come in and talk with you and your fellow?’
The man shrugged and stepped aside.
Crispin entered and shook off the rain from his cloak. He was invited to the fire. The room was close and dark except for the flames in the hearth. The two men’s appearance was rough and slightly unkempt. It was not entirely unexpected for men living at such an outpost. Teague had told him there were four men-at-arms, one porter, and one constable. A chaplain lived in lodgings near them in the mainland ward. Crispin had seen for himself the two caretakers, and this was the entire complement of the wretched castle.
The two men faced him, looking on anxiously. With his back warming at the fire, Crispin eyed them. ‘Roger Bennet ventured out two days ago. Did either of you see him leave the castle grounds?’
‘I saw him get his horse,’ offered one man with dusty blond hair.
‘Did you see him leave through the gate?’ asked Crispin.
He scrubbed his hair and stared down at his boots. ‘Come to think of it … no.’
‘He was going to see his girl,’ said the other man, wearing a leather tunic dotted with iron studs.
The blond man elbowed Leather Tunic. ‘But which one, eh, Stephen?’
They chuckled but soon returned to solemnity, remembering that Roger was dead.
‘Oh?’ said Crispin. ‘Was Roger known to keep the company of two women?’
The men exchanged glances. Who was Crispin but a foreigner, a man from another place; distant London?
Crispin raised his chin. ‘Well then?’
The blond man, somewhat chastened at letting loose such information, cleared his throat. ‘Well, there is the one in the village, and the one from … outside the village. The wilderness. No one trifles with that folk, but Roger did.’
‘Why does no one “trifle” with the wilderness folk?’
It was Stephen’s turn to speak. ‘Some say they’re pagans. I don’t believe it. But Arno does.’
The other man nodded. ‘Arno Leverton. And he’s Stephen Kettle. Yes, I’ve seen them in the woods with their bonfires. I saw the men wearing antlers. There’s something devilish going on there.’
Crispin crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I have heard of villagers in all parts of England with rituals of antlers and bonfires. It is as old as the land itself. It means nothing.’
‘Is that so?’ said Stephen with a sneer. ‘And I suppose you heard them chant in a foreign tongue and make the fire dance with them? That’s what I’ve seen.’
‘Be that as it may, do you know the woman’s name? And where their settlement is?’
They exchanged looks again. Neither one seemed inclined to say until Stephen Kettle stuck his thumbs in his belt. ‘I think her name is Eseld. And where their village is … well. That’s anyone’s guess.’
‘No, I think it’s to the west of here, in the forest,’ said Arno Leverton. ‘No one goes that way. And if you’ve got any brains, Guest, you won’t either.’
‘Justice for the dead is my consideration, gentlemen.’
They stared at Crispin as if he’d spoken like a pagan. He shrugged and made again for the door. ‘West, you said? Into the forest?’
Kettle stomped toward him. Crispin braced himself for a blow, for the man’s hands had curled into fists and his face was red and twisted. ‘I beg of you, sir. Don’t go there. At least … don’t go alone.’
‘Then come with me.’
Kettle stepped back to the fire with his friend. ‘Find a man in the village to show you the way. If they dare.’
He felt a chill shiver down his spine. Men were often afraid of their own superstitions, and there was usually nothing to fear. But … in the last few years, Crispin had come to question his staunch beliefs that there was little but God’s wrath – or the king’s – to fear. There might be something to this settlement in the wilderness. Or it might just be tales told to keep the curious away. Whatever it was, he had to speak to this Eseld.
‘Thank you,’ he said with a cursory bow, and left them.
He stood in the rain in the courtyard, looking back at the smoky warmth just beyond the door and sighed. Best to head to the village and find Jack. It was probably wiser not to go to the woods without an escort, as they said.
He mounted the soggy horse, apologizing under his breath to the beast, and urged it on through the courtyard and to the gate beyond. Out onto the road he went, lifting his eyes only enough to look for the sodden rooftops, the lazy smoke rolling along the slate and thatch in the gray distance.
Jack was, no doubt, out doing his task. And Crispin decided that a little warmed wine at the inn might be advisable before heading out to look for the man. His horse plodded along until they reached the innyard. The mummer’s wagon was not there, and he felt just the merest disappointment. Because he thought of Kat and of her recent kisses … and that stupid feeling again.
‘I’m getting too old for this,’ he grumbled, and left Tobias for the stableman.
The inn was warmer and dry, and he shook off his cloak and hung it by the fire. He asked the innkeeper for a bit of warmed wine and the man went in haste to prepare it. Crispin settled back by the fire, putting his feet up on a stool in the empty room, and even closed his eyes. The warmth made him drowsy and he sensed the innkeeper near him, setting down the cup on the table. He jerked with a start when lips dropped to his.
With eyes wide and his body halfway from his seat, it took a moment to realize the sound ringing in his ears was Kat, laughing at him.
‘You should see your face.’ She giggled. ‘You thought it was the innkeeper, I’ll wager.’
He straightened his coat, lowering his face. ‘Nothing of the sort. You surprised me is all.’ He saw the wine and grabbed it, spilling some in his haste. He gulped it. It was too hot, and he choked, coughing. Her little hands slapped his back.
‘Steady there, Master Guest.’
He shrugged out from under her and sat hard on the chair to avoid her touch. Except that she drew in close and poked him in the chest. ‘You sent your man to interrogate me,’ she said, face far too close to his. ‘That is unacceptable. Don’t do it again!’
He sipped the wine before setting the wooden goblet aside. ‘We needed to know.’
‘Then have the bollocks to ask me yourself next time.’ She sat next to him and even scooted the chair closer. The firelight glowed on her cheek, scattering the light in her eyes, touching the edges of her hair. There was no question that she was a beautiful woman. And he well knew how she had used it to her advantage. ‘Need there be a “next time”?’ By the flair in her eyes he knew it was a mistake saying so.
She rushed him again, hands placed on each chair arm so that she was leaning in, with her bosom just under his nose. ‘No next time? You have no interest in speaking to me? How have I offended you? When I left London, I thought …’ She sighed, heaving her chest … which his eyes could not help but watch. She moved away from him and slumped back into her chair. ‘You haven’t thought of me at all, have you?’
‘That’s not true. I … worried about you.’
‘You worried about me. And that’s all?’
‘Dammit, woman, you said for me not to follow you!’
‘I didn’t mean it.’
He knew his mouth had dropped open and he snapped it shut. But then he couldn’t help but laugh. He sat back more comfortably against the chair. ‘Kat, Kat. What is a body to do with you?’
‘If we are speaking of your body … much.’ There was that sultry glint to her eye again and she measured him from under her lashes.
‘I find myself … busy.’
‘Too busy for me? With your … treasure?’
He let out a long breath. ‘Jack,’ he growled.
‘Oh, don’t blame him. He hadn’t meant to say anything. I just seem to have a way with loosening men’s tongues.’
His hands tightened over the chair arms. ‘You … you didn’t …’
She waved her hand in a carefree manner. ‘Don’t vex yourself. I never broke the virtue of your apprentice.’ She put a hand to her heart when she said, ‘He told me he is a faithful husband with no desire to sin.’ She smiled. ‘He’s a good man.’
Crispin’s hands eased and he sat back again. ‘Don’t use your wiles on him. He means what he says.’
‘I know. I told him my heart is set on you and only you.’
He sighed again. ‘Kat …’
‘Crispin.’ She leaned forward in her seat. ‘Tell me something. Why are we wasting our time here, when you have a perfectly good empty room at your disposal?’
He laughed again. ‘Because I have no intention of bedding you, demoiselle.’
‘But I have every intention of bedding you … Master Guest.’
He smiled, the humorous edge coming off his laughter. ‘Do you?’ He didn’t mind these playful games, but he was certain he couldn’t trust her with more.
She rose in challenge but instead of rushing at him, she slowly moved across the floor, plucked the goblet from his hand, and drank from it. She seemed to stand in a position for the best advantage, allowing the flickering hearthlight to play over her curves, her cheeks, her hair.
He swallowed, watching her. Yes, he’d thought of her. In the darkest of nights, when his cod ached from lack of a woman. When he satisfied himself and pictured a female form, often it was Philippa, but lately, it had been Kat.
‘I am older now, not as easy to seduce,’ he said, though his voice sounded uneven to him.
She looked up and set down the wine. ‘No? Perhaps … it is I who is lonely.’
He mulled it. She was right. The room was unoccupied and here they were. What the hell? He rose, took her by the hand and led the way up the stairs.
He unlocked the room, and when they were inside, he laid the bar over the door. The hearth was cold, but it didn’t matter. He felt warm, and his breath caught as she touched the buttons of her bodice. He strode forward and pushed her hands away. He took the buttons of her cote-hardie himself and undid them, before leaning forward and taking her mouth in a kiss.
As sweet and as compliant as he remembered. She tasted of the wine from downstairs, of the spices from the brew and the currants of the berry flavor. He felt her arms around his neck and his own hands skimmed through the bodice to her back, holding her through only her chemise.
She shrugged out of the gown and let it fall to the floor. As they continued to kiss, she worked on the buttons of his cote-hardie. He moved incrementally back so that she could finish, and she looked up at him with a smile.
He smiled back, remembering how she’d be, and allowed her to pull off the coat and then his chemise. She ran her nails up his torso before relieving him of his braies and hose.
She looked him over approvingly before she grabbed the hem of her chemise and pulled it up and over her head. Now it was his turn to give his approval.
He moved in and took her in his arms, reveling in the soft feel of her, her hands and fingers running over him, her kisses and the way she nipped at his earlobe when he bent to kiss and caress lower. Finally, he pulled her toward his bed and yanked her up onto his lap as he sat on the edge.
Her arms twined around his neck, her thighs open around his waist. With her warm breath hitching at his ear and his hands beneath and behind her, she sighed. ‘Crispin, Crispin. How I’ve missed you.’
