He opened the door and walked down the nave to gauge the progress of his companions. A pile of tiles sat beside them, and Jack had employed pickax as well as spade to dig a hole. Teague eagerly scrambled to his feet and approached Crispin. ‘We have found a vault.’

  Merely raising his brows in comment, Crispin peered over his shoulder into the hole Jack had excavated. With a smear of dirt on his face, Jack looked up at his master. ‘Sir! Look here.’ He lifted something from the hole and held it aloft.

  A gold pendant in the shape of a dragon.

  ‘It’s got writing on it,’ said Jack, screwing up his face to hold it close. ‘Whosoever seeks the resting place of Calesvol must in all faith look deeper … but not here.’ He kept using his thumb to scrap away the dirt, and read it again, his lips moving silently over the Latin words. ‘Then we are not in the right place. For this Calesvol isn’t what we seek.’

  ‘Merciful God and all His angels!’ cried Teague, and then he danced a jig, lifting the hem of his long gown.

  Crispin and Jack exchanged glances. ‘Sir,’ Crispin ventured, ‘I take it these are good tidings?’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ He bolted toward Jack and swept the dragon from his grasp, turning it over and over, first looking at the dragon side, and then reading the back. ‘This is very good news.’ He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the golden pendant. ‘Master Crispin, this is what we seek. Don’t you see? Calesvol is the Cornish name for … Excalibur.’

  NINE

  Crispin ran his fingers over the cold metal, the carved dragon whose tail was wound about it, making a teardrop shape. On the other side, the pendant was flat and etched with the Latin letters. ‘Then by these words, we are not digging in the correct place. Why would they have put this here?’

  Teague snatched it back, breathing heavily and staring at it. It glimmered in the last faint glow of sunlight through the glass panes. ‘Because I believe the sword was here at one time. Someone deemed it unsafe to remain. You see here the vault.’

  There appeared a rectangular space that Jack had yet to fully unearth. It was constructed of stone. Too small for a body. But just right for a sword. Crispin’s heart stuttered. Could this excitable man have been right all along? Was there truly a chance to find this sword of swords?

  ‘And they left this here to … to what? If it were unsafe here and liable to be stolen, why would someone leave a clue as to its true whereabouts?’

  ‘That is a puzzle.’ Teague’s round face fell to shadow in the dying light. ‘It could mean that this clue is a ruse.’

  ‘Though etched on gold …’ said Jack.

  ‘Ah, but Master Tucker,’ said Teague, ‘what better way to lure us to some other location, far from the sword. An expensive trifle this, but it would do the trick. Will do the trick, I daresay, for we have no other clues to follow.’

  Jack’s shoulders fell. ‘Do you mean it’s a lie all along?’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’ Teague’s face turned dreamy. ‘In the sanctum it abides, the undercurrents of time do guard, the hollow of Caliburnus, until the King rises again,’ he recited. ‘Do you understand the meaning, Master Jack? The sword Excalibur lies in wait in the mysteries of the ages, waiting for Arthur to come again. He is the king that will arise and make the land whole again. For Arthur was more than a slayer of Saxons. With the magic of Merlin he shall be the great king once more.’

  ‘How you weave fanciful tales out of history,’ said Crispin.

  ‘Not a bit of it, sir,’ said Teague, hand to his heart. ‘This is what so captures the hope and imagination of the telling of his tale. And did we not pass through plague times and these endless winters? It is all a sign.’

  ‘Will stealing his sword from its hiding place bring him sooner, do you think?’

  Teague frowned. ‘You may well mock me—’

  ‘That was not my intention, sir.’ He did not like bringing out the sour expression on the usually merry merchant. ‘I have always been a pragmatic man. I take history as it is written, not the fancies in the margins.’

  Teague smiled again. Crispin felt relieved at it. ‘I see your character, Master Crispin. You like the recitation of facts. It is your catechism. But do we not need both kinds of men, like you and like me? Else there would be no philosophers, no alchemists, no architects or masons to imagine building the great palaces and cathedrals. Oh yes, that takes imagination, too. We have our world because practical men teamed with dreamers.’

  Crispin nodded and offered a smile. ‘I concede it.’ He glanced again toward the window. ‘But our dreaming further will have to wait for the morning. It is growing late and soon to be dark. I do not wish to be on this road in the darkness.’

  ‘Right you are, Master Crispin. But this calls for a celebration! We shall go to the inn and get ourselves some wine.’

  ‘There is a performance of the players at the village green,’ Crispin reminded him. He hoped his voice did not sound overly eager.

  ‘Is there?’ said Teague. ‘Well then! Let us fix this place, and get us to the inn. We will see the players at nightfall!’

  Jack repaired the floor with mud, sweeping it clean with a broom from Teague’s wagon – and did an adequate job of it, Crispin noted with some pride – and they grabbed their mounts and followed Teague’s wagon down the winding lane.

  Looking up at the distant hill with its small stone church upon it, Jack tutted. ‘I hope Roger Bennet’s family will soon fetch him. That’s a sad thing, him lying there all by himself, not even a monk for prayers and company.’

  ‘Yes. A sad state of affairs,’ said Crispin. ‘And speaking of affairs, we might spend our time at the green asking – discreetly – if Bennet might have had other female companionship in the village.’

  ‘I suppose a man has nothing but time at an outpost like this.’

  ‘Except that he soon discovered how little time he actually had.’

  ‘God caught up with him,’ said Jack sagely. ‘Or the Angel of Death, I suppose.’

  ‘And there is still the problem of getting to this other village.’

  ‘Do you think it is true, sir? That there is this other village?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sir Regis and some of the men in Treknow seem to think so. There is the woman Eseld. Perhaps she is a fabrication. Perhaps not. In any case, we need to be certain.’

  Jack adjusted his seat on the horse. ‘If we can convince a man to lead us.’

  It was a slow amble through the gate, through the mainland ward, and then out onto the road to the village. They stabled the horses and got inside the warm inn, and settled in with their celebratory wine, though Teague kept his excitement from getting the better of him. No sense in alerting strangers that a great treasure was at hand.

  Crispin cocked half an ear to the others at the inn, talking about tonight’s performance. Even in crowded London such a thing would have gathered most of the populace, but in a small village, it would be as good as a market day. Everyone was certain to be there. A good chance for he and Jack to peruse the crowd, to ask some questions … before the revelers got too drunk.

  There was no sign of Kat. No doubt she was with her fellow mummers. He had more questions for her. Casting a glance at Jack, he supposed he should make sure his apprentice was with him. To avoid any … conflicts of interest.

  It seemed the inn also served as the local alehouse. Villagers sat with the inn’s guests; there was talk all around him of the murder and the speculation about it. He listened hard to any clues. The man’s conquests in the village were often mentioned.

  Jack sidled closer to him and spoke quietly. ‘Master Bennet seems to have been all over this parish.’

  ‘You’re listening, too.’

  ‘Aye, sir. Maybe we should gather all the women in one place. It will save us time in questioning them.’

  ‘That does not sound wise.’

  ‘Oh. I see what you mean, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps it is a simple case of a jealous woman.’

  ‘And she killed him? Blind me. Then we will have to enquire of all his women.’

  ‘You didn’t get anything out of the milkmaid Janet?’

  ‘I fear that I did not. She was so woebegone …’

  ‘It might have been playacting.’

  Jack frowned. ‘God’s blood! It seems I am as feeble around women as you are … Sir,’ he quickly added.

  Crispin didn’t bother scowling. ‘Kat told me she tried her wiles on you … and was unsuccessful.’

  ‘I’d never, sir! For one, I’m a married man. And for another … well. She … she was with you, sir. I’d never … never …’

  ‘I get your meaning, Jack,’ he muttered.

  Crispin rose, deciding to approach some of those in the inn now before they became lost in the darkness on the green. Jack seemed to know his intent and rose to follow him.

  With his cup in hand and a smile on his face, Crispin approached the first group of men. He pretended to be tipsy and off balance. ‘Did I hear you aright?’ He leaned over conspiratorially and placed a hand unsteadily on their table. ‘You were talking about that dead man.’ He husked a whisper. ‘And his women?’

  The man looked Crispin over and glanced back at Jack … who suddenly had a sloppy grin on his face.

  The man chuckled. ‘Oh, he had women, right, lads?’ He raised his cup to his companions and they all laughed and drank.

  Crispin slid onto a vacant stool. ‘More than one? In this little village?’

  The man wiped his mouth and leaned toward Crispin. ‘He had bollocks, that’s a certainty. I know of Janet the milkmaid, Derwa the goose-girl, Mabyn the weaver … who am I forgetting, lads?’

  ‘Gwendolyn,’ said a man with a dusky blond beard. ‘That’s all I can think of.’

  ‘And the woman Eseld from the village in the forest,’ offered Crispin.

  They stared at him, all laughter suddenly dropped from their faces. ‘Eseld?’ said a man with a blue cote-hardie, before men closest to him hushed him to silence.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Oh … er … well, no one goes there … to that village. Even Roger Bennet had more brains than to do so.’

  ‘But I heard he had,’ urged Crispin. ‘A woman named Eseld.’

  There was a bit of murmuring before all fell to stark silence.

  ‘Aye,’ said a man speaking at last. His hair as red as Jack’s. ‘I heard that Sir Roger carried on at that village. Strange, that place. I shouldn’t like to go to theirs. Might get swallowed up like a faery barrow.’

  Crispin forgot to appear drunk when he asked, ‘Would you be brave enough – for enough silver – to take us to that village?’

  The man glanced at his companions. He looked like the ones earlier, who had declined to even speak of it, before he seemed to draw himself up. ‘Aye. For the right amount I would.’

  ‘And your name, sir?’ asked Crispin.

  ‘Kenver. Kenver Treeve.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Treeve. I’ll contact you on the morrow. Can I find you here?’

  ‘As well as not. And who might you be?’

  ‘I am Crispin Guest, in search of Roger Bennet’s killer.’ The room quieted at that. ‘And what of these women of Roger Bennet,’ he said to the others. ‘Do they know of each other?’

  Smiles slowly returned to the men’s solemn faces. ‘Oh, aye,’ said the blond bearded fellow. ‘They do now. There’s been a bit of hair pulling. Wouldn’t be surprised if one of them – whist!’ He drew his finger over his throat like a knife blade.

  The others laughed heartily at that. Blue Cote-hardie seemed to have recovered his tongue and took another drink. ‘A man who can’t master his women, well. I suppose they’ll master him.’

  ‘You think one of them murdered him?’ asked Crispin.

  Blue Cote-hardie settled back in his chair. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘Well,’ said Crispin, buttoning his cloak, ‘I hear the mummers are performing a play at dusk on the green. I wouldn’t like to miss it.’

  ‘That’s true, lads,’ said Kenver. ‘Let’s to it.’

  The rest of them rose, and soon more men were donning their cloaks and heading toward the door. Crispin and Jack headed back toward Teague, who was buttoning his cloak over his chest. ‘Let us all travel to the green,’ said Teague. ‘And then to bed, for early in the morning we must ferret out this clue.’ He patted the pouch at his hip that held the gold dragon pendant. If he didn’t find the sword, at least that gold would keep him for a while. Unless he turned it over to the coroner. Crispin snorted at the chance of that.

  With a pink horizon hanging over the distant trees, the people of the village all seemed to be streaming from their houses and shops and heading toward the green. Crispin could see the light from many torches glowing ahead, and he was no less excited than the others. He was glad of the cloudless night, for the many stars hung above them like a great dome.

  Music filtered into the evening air, and once they turned the corner at an overarching oak, there was Kat with her mummer fellows, sitting on a bench and playing a tabor, beating on the drum to the music of a man playing a shawm and a woman sawing with her bow on a rebec.

  Her glance seemed to home in on Crispin the moment he turned toward her, and he looked back unabashedly … a smile of remembrance blooming on his face.

  The whole village had gathered. Kenver Treeve sidled up to him. He gestured with his head and pointed to a plump woman with dark hair. ‘If you’d know it, Master Guest, yon is Gwendolyn. And there …’ He pointed toward a fey-looking blonde woman. ‘That’s Derwa.’

  Derwa seemed to have a sour look on her face, and she was standing next to an equally grumpy man. Could it be her husband who had learned of his wife’s infidelity? Crispin made his way toward them and bowed. He surveyed the thin-boned woman, who seemed bird-like and fragile. ‘Are you Derwa?’

  The man stepped in front of her and even pushed her back. ‘Who are you?’

  He bowed again. ‘I am Crispin Guest, Tracker of London. I investigate crimes.’

  Mention of London seemed to cow the man and his tense muscles eased. ‘You’ve come all the way from London?’

  ‘I happened to be in the region when Roger Bennet was killed. May I speak to your wife on it?’

  ‘She isn’t my wife. And not likely to be anytime soon.’ Instead of demurring to the man, Derwa lifted her head and tossed back her hair. It appeared that her fragility was only skin-deep.

  ‘Then … if I may speak to you?’

  The man didn’t seem to want to leave, but after a pause, he stomped away. Jack stood at a distance, keeping an eye on all who passed, and a particular one on the man betrothed to Derwa.

  Crispin faced her. ‘When was the last time you saw Roger Bennet?’

  She folded her arms and sniffed derisively. ‘Monday last. Had I known he was carrying on with so many others, I wouldn’t have given him my time at all.’

  ‘Two days ago. Did he come to the village, or …’

  ‘He rarely came to the village.’ She stopped, shook her head, and kicked at the turf. ‘No, as I understand it, that isn’t true. He only told me he didn’t come to the village. But, er …’ She glanced about and spotted Gwendolyn. ‘I have since learned that this was not so.’

  ‘You met him at the castle. Where?’

  ‘At the chapel. I should be ashamed to say so … but I’m not. I know Menhyr promised himself to me, but so did Roger. He had more money. But all his promises were lies.’

  ‘Demoiselle. You last met him the day he died. You might have been the last person to have seen him alive.’

  ‘Would that not be the murderer?’

  Crispin said nothing, but kept his gaze steady.

  ‘I did not kill him, if that is your thinking, sir. I had no reason to. But since learning of his other liaisons, I’d have thought hard about doing so.’

  ‘I don’t blame you, demoiselle. But dallying with two men … might leave you with none.’

  Her arms remained tightly folded. ‘Are we done?’

  ‘When you left him at the chapel, did you see anyone else along the plains?’

  ‘I don’t recall seeing anyone. None but them caretakers. That one with the long beard and staff.’

  ‘Master Gwyls?’

  ‘I don’t know none of their names. I don’t take up with those from the castle. Not no more. Not ever again.’

  She didn’t seem to have any more to say, so he bowed, and she turned sharply away.

  Jack whistled. ‘That is one angry woman.’

  ‘I suppose I don’t blame her. Though she is just as guilty and faithless.’

  ‘But is she telling the truth about only finding out about his liaisons after he died?’

  ‘That is the crux of it.’ When he turned again to follow her on the darkening green, he spotted Gwendolyn, who was staring at him. He decided to take advantage of the remaining light and go to her. When she seemed to sense that he was approaching, she threw the end of her cloak over her shoulder and turned to hurry away. Crispin trotted to catch up.

  ‘Demoiselle!’

  She stopped. He doubted anyone ever called her that. Likely ‘wench!’ was what they called out to her most times. She turned back to him with surprise on her features.

  ‘You are Gwendolyn?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  Her hair was a wild mass of curls. Brown, he thought, but it was difficult to tell by the easing of sunlight. She was a plump woman with a round face and a large bosom. Roger Bennet seemed to find himself the prettiest lasses in the village.

  He bowed. ‘I am Crispin Guest, Tracker of London. I investigate crimes.’ She seemed as intimidated at mention of London as Derwa’s betrothed had been. ‘And I am investigating the death of Roger Bennet.’

  ‘Him.’ She snorted.

  ‘I take it you were not aware of his other … erm … female companionship.’

  ‘Companionship? Is that what they call whores these days?’

  A woman came barreling out of the gloom. ‘I heard what you said, you squealing pig!’ she cried.

  Before Crispin could speak, the woman laid hold of Gwendolyn, grabbing a fistful of her hair and slapping her face.

 

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