The man bucked beneath Rykener as he pressed the miscreant’s wrists to the mud. ‘You damnable woman!’ the man cried over his shoulder in a thick northern brogue. ‘Get off!’
Letting his wrists go, Rykener grabbed handfuls of the man’s cloak and hauled him to his feet. The man swung at him, but John managed to pull the man’s swinging arms behind him and had him secured until Crispin arrived.
‘Well done,’ said Crispin, looking the muddied man over.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a man who doesn’t like to be trifled with. And you sir, and your ilk, have been trying my patience to the limit.’
The man spit the mud from his lips and squinted. ‘Och, I’ll wager you are … Crispin Guest.’
‘How very astute.’
The man tried to wrench his arms free and sneered back at John. ‘Call off this bitch of yours. She’s as strong as an ox.’ He seemed to notice the spectacle they were making. ‘For God’s sake, man. To be bested by a woman …’
‘Well there’s where you’re wrong.’
John twisted the man’s arms up just once more before letting him go. He patted the man’s shoulders. ‘Don’t feel too badly. You were bested by a man, after all. Albeit one wearing women’s clothes.’
The man spun around and glared, eyes sharpening on John’s flat chest and smirk.
Before the man could gain his senses and flee, Crispin grabbed his cotehardie at the neck and hauled him close. ‘I want to know where the Stone is. And I think you can enlighten me. That would be better than a dagger in the gut, wouldn’t it?’
The man sobered. There was plainly nowhere to run. ‘Very well, Master Guest. I … I don’t know where it is …’
‘I’m beginning to think that no one does. And yet it vanished into thin air. With your help.’
The man had the nerve to crack a smile. His eyes flicked toward the shop. ‘Oh, I see. The man who sells the powder has a loose tongue.’
‘He doesn’t like the idea of a blade at his throat any more than you would, I imagine.’
‘You have me. There’s no need for threats. Aye, I supplied the means to blow up that plaster Stone, and it worked perfectly.’
‘Too perfectly, as no one seems to know where the real one is now.’
The smile faded. ‘Aye. Well. That was not part of the plan.’
‘So I gathered.’
The man straightened, pulling his shoulders back. ‘You have only yourself to blame. You’ve been avoiding us.’
‘What the devil—’ Crispin frowned. ‘I’ve been avoiding no one. It is only chaos from Scotland. None of you have enough brains to scrape together a cogent plan, one that can be followed. If you have some new information I would be pleased to hear it.’
‘You were to meet us and you didna.’
‘At the Boar’s Tusk?’ Crispin shook his head. ‘I tried. Are you Deargh?’
‘He is the man who leads us.’
Crispin rubbed his forehead. ‘Very well. I am prepared to talk with him now. You will take me to him.’
The man seemed to mull it over and finally nodded. ‘Aye, that’s likely best. It’s back to Westminster, then.’
Crispin gestured for the man to lead, and with all the dignity of a man covered in mud, he set out back to Trinity Street as Crispin and John followed.
John elbowed Crispin as they passed through Ludgate, some minutes later. ‘I have to say,’ he said quietly so that only Crispin could hear, ‘you lead a very exciting life.’
‘You should have seen it before I was exiled to the Shambles.’
John shook his head. There was mud on his cheek and his coif was somewhat askew. ‘Despite your hardships, my friend – and I do not mean to diminish them – I have a feeling that you are a much more interesting man now.’
Crispin snorted. Interesting indeed! What had this life made him but bitter and morose? True, it had given him a heretofore unknown empathy for those of the lower classes, for he saw how they struggled – how he struggled – from day to day to merely put food on the table. And sometimes there was none. There was many a time that he went to bed with a belly aching and hollow. But that hadn’t been the case for some years. When had that tide turned? Could it have been when Jack Tucker wormed his way into his household? With that second mouth to feed, perhaps he had spent fewer coins on drink. He scowled, thinking. Perhaps. And yet he often got just as drunk. He knew damn well that Jack had supplemented their larder by cutting purses or pilfering the occasional bird from the poulterer. But not lately. Not in the last few years as the boy grew into manhood. He was fifteen now. And Crispin well remembered his years at that age. Jack was the quickest study he had ever seen, like a cloth ready to soak up anything under it.
And where was he now? Not in a dungeon, thanks to Lady Katherine. He sent up a prayer of thanks for that. Even though imprisoned, his lot was better, at least for the moment.
And John had gotten him thinking about a bed for the lad. He supposed it was high time he did something about that.
He nearly ran into a snuffling hog being led to market back toward London and he looked around to notice that they had just passed under the Temple Bar arch, being waved through by the porters, and were almost within spotting distance of Charing Cross.
London was now behind them, and Westminster before with a smattering of shops along the Strand that opened to the vista of the more crowded shops and houses of the central city, such as it was. Farmland and plains rambled beyond the perimeter, much as it did outside the city limits of London.
Westminster Abbey’s bells tolled Sext, and Crispin looked up into the cloudy sky, happy to feel a little noon sunshine warming through.
Crispin thought they would head to the Keys, but their man instead led them into the middle of the city, down crooked streets growing narrower.
‘Where are you taking us?’ said Crispin at last, eyeing the lanes and fenced dead ends with suspicion.
‘It’s just down here,’ said the man, though with his darting glances and nervous gestures, he didn’t look too certain.
The man moved quickly now, weaving through the men and women along the road, putting distance between himself and Crispin. ‘What the …’
And before Crispin could utter another word, the man broke into a run. He picked the perfect moment, for just as Crispin tried to give chase, a boy with a herd of sheep turned the corner, and Crispin and Rykener were blocked from moving forward.
‘The churl!’ cried John. ‘Why did he run? I thought he wanted to speak to you, to meet with you?’
Crispin pushed ineffectually at a blackface sheep that bleated at him as it shoved forward. ‘Did he? Perhaps not. This scheme has got more twists and turns than a labyrinth.’
‘What do we do now?’
Crispin measured where they were and headed without speaking toward one of the many narrow lanes. Wet laundry hung in arcs of heavy lines, crossing over one another, fluttering listlessly in the smoky gusts.
They ducked under a particularly low-hanging drape of white linens where they reached a door. Crispin knocked gently and stepped back.
‘Come in, the door’s unbarred!’ came the call from within, and mere moments after was followed by a raucous caw, startling John. Crispin pushed the door open and moved into the dark space. Flint struck against steel, sending a spark, lighting briefly the cold and now familiar room.
Domhnall with Lady Agnes on his shoulder knelt at the renewing fire and squinted at Crispin. ‘Welcome back, Master Guest,’ he rumbled.
John becrossed himself.
Domhnall gave Rykener one look and turned back to his smoking fire. ‘Why does that man wear a dress?’
‘You have a sharper eye than most men,’ said Crispin, ‘even with only one.’
‘So I’ve been told. Get on, girl,’ he said to the raven, sending her to her perch.
‘Forgive our hasty intrusion,’ said Crispin. ‘We were led astray, I’m afraid. Though it is just as timely.’
‘Now who’s speaking in riddles?’
Crispin conceded it with a lopsided grin.
The man poked at his fire, but it didn’t seem to coax much of a flame. ‘It’s good you’ve come. I have some information for you.’
He rose with a grunt and shuffled toward his stool, smirked once toward John, and sat, easing himself down with a groan and creak of joints. ‘Och, it’s a hard thing, old age. At least you’ve got your Jack Tucker.’
‘I am trying to assure that I do.’
‘Ah yes. Sorry. I forget. Well now. I have a name for you.’
‘Yes?’
‘John Dunbar, earl of Moray.’
‘So. I have heard this name. He is behind this, then?’
‘Aye, so it is said on the streets. He’s got henchmen here doing his will. But he’s wicked clever.’
‘So clever that he tells his henchmen to do only so much without telling the others what they are doing?’
‘Aye, he could be. Then no one could tell the whole plot under torture.’
John made an audible swallow.
‘I see,’ said Crispin. ‘Diabolical. I have another name or title for you. What of ‘Mormaer’? Have you heard that before?’
Domhnall smiled grimly. ‘Aye.’ He lifted his gnarled hands toward the fire. ‘The Mormaer is the Great Steward. The Mormaer of Fife has the great honor to crown the kings of Scotland.’
‘And what has this Mormaer to do with this theft?’
Domhnall chuckled. ‘I should have thought that this was obvious. He has everything to do with it. The Mormaer of Fife is the chief of the Clan MacDuff. And I should think it might be no surprise to you that the present clan chief is John Dunbar, earl of Moray.’
Crispin studied Domhnall and his self-satisfied grin. ‘I suppose all this does your heart glad, Master Domhnall, that all will soon be set aright in Scotland.’
‘A wee bit,’ he said, smile fading. ‘But nothing will be set right with a mere Stone. Scotland must be free of the English. Of your lords and your castles. And don’t roll your eyes at me, Crispin Guest, for I know you are of Welsh blood and the same has happened in Wales as happened in Scotland. But we will never stop fighting for what is ours.’
Crispin reddened at the reference to his Welsh heritage. Few knew of it and fewer ever mentioned it.
‘I can understand without agreeing, Master Domhnall. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.’
Domhnall waved his hand dismissively. ‘Our King Robert is just now showing his claws, Master Crispin. In Otterburn and the Marches.’
Crispin looked down his nose at the old man. ‘Nothing of that concerns me as much as the return of the Stone.’
Domhnall nodded slowly, licking his lips. ‘Aye. For Jack’s sake. But how do you know you can trust me, Master Crispin? After all, it would do my heart good to best the English and steal the Stone.’
‘I don’t know.’
Domhnall looked into the fire, a ghost of a smile on his dry and scored lips.
‘Call it my gut instincts. You have never deceived me before. Between friends there is no need of justice.’
Domhnall poked at the fire, bushy brows shadowing his eyes. ‘“Friends,” eh?’
Crispin shrugged. ‘I suppose.’
The old man nodded and laid the poker down. ‘That is why I didna fear to tell you about these rebels.’ He settled on his seat and swiveled toward Crispin. ‘It is said there is also one who is no exactly earning his martyrdom.’
‘Eh? What is your meaning?’
The bird suddenly twisted toward John. She dove and pulled at the purse at his belt.
‘Ow! Help Crispin! I am being attacked by a devil bird!’
‘By the Mass,’ swore the old man. ‘Wheest! Lady Agnes! Leave the gentleman’s purse alone. He’s our friend, and we don’t steal from friends.’
The bird stopped flapping at John’s face and soared across the room to her perch again. She clacked her beak at Rykener without an ounce of apology.
John drew back in alarm. ‘By the Blessed Virgin!’
‘She’ll no attack you again.’
‘She’s only a trained bird, John.’
Rykener checked on his scrip still secured to his girdle. ‘Trained! Such industry, to be sure.’
‘Aye. She’s a good bird. Mostly brings back jewelry.’
John perked up. ‘Truly? How long does it take to train a bird?’
Crispin shot him an exasperated, ‘John!’
‘As I was saying, Master Crispin,’ Domhnall went on. ‘There’s one of the Mormaer’s henchmen with no good intentions for the honor of Scotland. He is in it for himself, for gold. So it is said. And a man who is in it not for honor is a verra dangerous man indeed.’
‘I see. But who?’
He shrugged. ‘They no said. That’s for you to ferret out. But have a care. We do not know who is the deadliest of these henchmen of the Mormaer. They all verra well may be.’
‘I know they are dangerous. The very nature of the scheme makes it so.’
‘Each deadly sin leads to another. I think greed is foremost, and where there is greed, there is envy, and soon, murder.’
Crispin paused. Domhnall’s words fluttered in his head like gnats. ‘And how is it you know one is greedier than the others, that they all aren’t working for the Mormaer? Two were certainly keen to warn me of the other in just that way.’
Domhnall’s smile rose slowly. ‘You are a suspicious laddie.’
Crispin smiled back. ‘It keeps me alive.’
‘So what does it mean, Master Crispin? That the word on the street was … planted?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘Why, in Heaven’s name?’
‘For me to discover? To confuse? To hide the truth.’
John crossed his arms over his chest and smirked at Domhnall, nodding his head toward Crispin. ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’
‘Verra good,’ Domhnall agreed.
‘I expected to be lied to,’ Crispin went on, lost in his own thoughts. ‘But why seek me out? Would it not have been more prudent to lay low, stay out of my view?’
John snapped his fingers. ‘They wanted you aware of them?’
‘That explosion would certainly have gotten my attention, whether I had been present at the abbey or not. But again, why?’
‘To “plant,” as you say, this false information,’ said John. ‘They knew you’d be a threat.’
‘Flattering, but frustrating.’
‘So the story that none of them had the Stone might yet be false.’
‘It’s still possible that one of them does have it but is attempting to misdirect me.’
Domhnall shook his head. ‘I dinna think so. For if any had it, would’na they be gone at once?’
‘I certainly would be,’ said John.
Crispin rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘John, we need to split up.’
Rykener frowned. ‘But I like working with you, Crispin.’
‘You are still working with me, just separately. I need this of you, John. It’s for Jack Tucker, after all.’
He sobered. ‘Of course. For Jack.’
‘I need you to seek out McGuffin.’
‘What? The rogues who abducted me?’
‘So many puzzles,’ said Domhnall sagely.
Crispin agreed. ‘I need you to find out what they want, what exactly they were after. I don’t think they are a deadly assembly, but be on your guard anyway. I will seek out this Deargh and return to talk to Findlaich. I feel if I can just get enough information from all three gatherings I can put the pieces together and find that damned Stone.’
‘With all haste, Crispin.’ John hesitated, seeming reluctant to leave. Finally, he offered a clumsy nod to the old man, gave Crispin a stern but worried look, and then hurried out.
Crispin stood before the grim fire. ‘I thank you for this information, Domhnall. I know it can’t be easy to … well, your own countrymen …’
‘I know you’d scarce believe it, Crispin, but I do value my honor almost as much as you do your own.’ Crispin nodded. ‘I grieve that I canna tell you more than this.’
‘You have done well.’
‘With information that you had already gleaned. But I shall dig deeper, Master Crispin, never you fear. There is more to discover. The deceptions are deep within the weeds.’
‘It is much appreciated.’
‘Don’t forget, Crispin, when all seems lost, one must go back to the beginning.’
Crispin rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes. That is an inevitability.’ He stopped and looked up. ‘The beginning. In the chaos I have neglected the beginning. Thank you again, Master Domhnall. You are wise.’ He dug into his scrip, raised a coin in his hand, and watched as Lady Agnes spotted it, lifted from her perch, and smoothly snatched it from his fingers before depositing it with her master.
Domhnall laughed, raised the coin in a salute, and dropped it deftly into his money pouch.
Crispin left the hovel and stood on the street, searching. He had to find this Deargh. But he needed to return to Westminster Abbey first.
Crispin skirted past the scaffolding and approached the Coronation Chair. The church wasn’t empty. It was never truly empty during the day, what with folk kneeling and beseeching favors in prayer, others searching for employment, and monks keeping a wary eye on all of them to be certain they didn’t make off with a candlestick or two. But no one was near the Confessor’s tomb.
He glared at the empty chair, blaming it for its hollowness. But this was useless. The Stone did not lose itself. The fact was, it was gone and he was a man who finds lost things. ‘So think, Crispin.’ His voice echoed in the cavernous space. The flames at the Confessor’s tomb flickered, and the chair stood stoically empty.
None of these men needed him to find the secreted Stone or do some other such nonsense as McGuffin spouted. It was all to keep him busy. Perhaps while the real culprit did the deed? So was there more to it than simply stealing the Stone? What plots were unfolding at court? The thought was more worrisome than a missing Scottish relic, but how could he convey that message to the king? No, once more, Crispin was on his own.
Days ago the true Stone had been replaced with a false one. And despite conniving by McGuffin and Findlaich and this yet-to-be-discovered Deargh, it all started here. Though anyone could come and go at all hours, the abbey church was patrolled at night by the porter and others. Therefore, the most logical culprits would have to have come from within. Which meant monks.
Was it really a coincidence that Crìsdean, the caretaker of the Coronation Chair, was a Scotsman? Crispin had no time for the benefit of the doubt. ‘Occam’s razor,’ he muttered. ‘The simplest answer is most likely correct.’
He glanced once more at the chair and turned abruptly to approach the cloister gate. Ever before he arrived at the bell rope, a monk behind the gate saw him and ran – he presumed – to get the abbot.
It wasn’t long before the stately Abbot Colchester strode from the shadows. ‘Master Guest,’ he said from behind his monk as the gate was unlocked. ‘Have you news?’
‘No, my Lord Abbot. I have returned to investigate. I wish to speak to Brother Crìsdean again.’
‘We can meet in my lodgings.’ He turned to go, but Crispin stayed him.
‘My lord, I would prefer to stay by the chair. I think … much can be gleaned by such proximity.’
The abbot cocked his head. ‘As you will. Fetch Brother Crìsdean,’ he said to the monk. As the monk left, the abbot led the way to the Coronation Chair.
Crispin walked behind him, watching the straight shoulders, the noble bearing of the abbot. Though the man did not come from nobility, he had certainly learned a thing or two as he rose in the ranks in the monastery. Certainly his travels had been tutor enough.
Instead of standing as Crispin expected of the man, he walked slowly around the chair. ‘Truth to tell, Master Guest, I have never much thought about this, dare I call it, “sacred object.” For does it not seat the anointed by God? It was here, part of many sacred objects, but seldom used as are the others. No, it has been taken for granted, and I vow when this is concluded not to do so again.’
‘You can scarce be blamed for taking it for granted. Much as you would a pillar or archway. It has always been there, will always be there.’
‘But we have a habit, does Man, of taking that which we see every day with a certain amount of disdain in its monotony. Only when there is chaos do we find it golden. Only when it is lost do we feel the loss.’
‘Did not Jesus preach of the ninety-nine sheep and how precious the one that was lost?’
The abbot turned to Crispin and measured him a long time. ‘Are you sermonizing to me, Master Guest?’
‘Not at all, Father Abbot.’
But when Colchester turned away again, a smile flickered at his mouth.
It wasn’t long thereafter that the sound of feet approaching grabbed their attention and they angled toward the sound.
Brother Crìsdean, short in stature but thickset, ambled toward them. He appeared more subdued than he had the other day when Crispin first spoke with him. He bowed first to the abbot and gave barely a nod to Crispin. The monk’s gaze seemed not to want to land on him.
‘Master Guest will ask you some questions, Brother Crìsdean,’ said the abbot.
With head bowed and hands clenched together Crìsdean waited. Crispin made him wait. The longer he waited the twitchier he became. Finally, after a long pause, Brother Crìsdean looked up, contempt on his face. ‘What are your questions? I have my duties to perform.’
Crispin began. ‘How do you feel about the king?’
The monk’s laugh was yanked from him like a sneeze and seemed to surprise him. ‘Such a question! He is the king.’
‘The king not my king?’
‘What difference does it make? You’re splitting hairs.’
‘A fine distinction. Is he your king … or is it Scotland’s king whom you follow?’
He implored Colchester. ‘Must I put up with this harassment, my Lord Abbot?’
‘Yes, you must,’ the abbot replied impassively.
The monk took a step back, blinking his astonishment, but he scowled, seeming to understand his predicament a bit better. ‘King Richard,’ he said between clenched teeth, ‘is my king.’
‘Good to know.’ Crispin folded his arms over his chest and peered down his nose at the man. ‘How do you feel about the Stone of Destiny?’
‘These are foolish questions, my Lord Abbot. If this is how the Tracker operates, then the Stone will never be found.’
‘You know nothing of me. But someone does. Someone has been trying to misdirect me. I think you know something of the Stone’s whereabouts, Crìsdean. And I think that you are as much a part of this plot as any of the conspirators.’
The monk trembled. His fury was clearly splashed over his face. ‘He insults me. He calls me a … a … conspirator! I am a brother in Christ!’
‘You’re a Scotsman, and you had your eye on the Coronation Chair from the beginning.’
‘You’re mad!’ He implored the abbot again. ‘He’s mad, my lord. Please!’
The abbot blinked slowly. ‘Do you have a point, Master Guest?’
‘My point? This man—’ he pointed directly at Crìsdean ‘—knows more than he will say on this matter. I accuse you, sir, of plotting to steal the Stone. Where is it?’
‘There is no call to accuse me, Master Guest. None at all. I am innocent.’ He wrung his hands. ‘God help me, I am innocent.’
The way the monk twisted his sleeve cuffs in his hands, the fact that he would not look up at him, caused a rush of anger to stiffen Crispin’s shoulders. He leaned in to Crìsdean, ‘I will give you exactly one day to tell me what you know – for I can tell that you do know something – or I shall inform his majesty’s guards, and trust me, they know how to get a man to talk.’
Crìsdean’s eyes fixed on Crispin. He breathed raggedly, his fear clearly visible in his widened pupils. The monk’s mouth worked, but nothing came out.
Walking toward the chair, Crispin stared down at it. ‘You did not work alone. The Stone is a heavy thing. Would you die or suffer torment to keep the other safe?’
‘But … but …’
Crispin whirled. ‘But what?’
It was there in his eyes. Crìsdean was ready to crack. It was one thing to protect an innocent. Another to protect a fellow conspirator. If he were innocent there would not be such fear in his darting gaze. He would cleave to his faith that God would protect his righteousness.
None of that was there in those watery eyes.
‘One day,’ said Crispin sharply. He took in the Confessor’s tomb, other distant monuments steeped in shadows, and felt as if he would burst with ire if he didn’t leave this place. There were no clues, no leads to take him from one post in the abbey to the other. He knew the abbot certainly must have led a search already into all the recesses that he was privy to and that Crispin could only dream of. The dormitory, the refectory, the kitchens. So many hiding places. How could one merely search and find it? True, it was no small thing, but a clever man with a well-thought-out plan could do it, could hide it almost anywhere. What other choice did he have but threats?
Crispin didn’t acknowledge the abbot but turned away instead. He’d said all he needed to say, and he marched down the tiled floor of the church, down the north ambulatory, where he shoved open the door and trotted down the steps. On the street he cursed the sky, raising his hands with a cry so raw and so frustrated that he wasn’t certain if he had even formed words.
If the abbot had not stood there, Crispin would have thrashed the man within an inch of his life. He knew something! It was evident in his eyes, the way he held himself. He knew something, dammit! And while he kept his council, safe and sound within the abbey precincts, Jack was suspended in Purgatory where he did not know whether a reprieve awaited or death. How could this be happening to him again?
He clenched his fists and stopped his restless pacing. ‘Control,’ he hissed. ‘Must not lose control.’
He breathed, staring upward toward the spire, the church rooftop. He had given the man one day and he would wait. And the monk would relent, for he had no other choice. Face the torturers or face Crispin. Which was the better part? The man would confess and give up the other.
The idea of wine or ale seemed very good to him, and he threw himself forward to search out an ale stake.
The people on the streets were dwindling as the day wore on. They were returning to their houses, seeing the workday come to its end.
But there were not so many people on the streets that he did not notice the little man. To be fair, through his ranting, he hadn’t noticed him at first, but caught his movement through his peripheral vision; that stuttered, jerky movement, the hesitant steps that shadowed his own.
He walked on, still looking for that ale stake, and when he found one, he turned quickly to duck inside the alehouse.
The small twitchy man sat a few tables behind him.
Once served, Crispin took only a cursory drink of the ale before he rose, making as if to leave. But he circled and found himself behind the little man, who was looking about, presumably trying to catch a glimpse of Crispin.
Crispin leaned over him, placing both hands on the table on either side of him. Close to his ear he whispered, ‘Are you by any chance looking for me?’
The man froze at first before he slithered about and tried to slip away. Crispin clamped a hand to his shoulder. ‘I think you are following me.’ He slid onto the bench beside him. But he canted forward and angled, not quite facing the table. ‘If you have something to say you had best say it.’
The man wet his lips with his darting tongue. His dull gray eyes flicked once to Crispin’s before he lowered them again and kept them directed toward the table. ‘M-Master Guest … I meant no harm …’
That northern accent again. ‘Good. Then you have a message.’
‘Aye. If it please you, you are to come with me.’
‘Why?’
‘To meet Master Deargh.’
‘You simply could have said so. Well, if you are to lead me then there is no time to waste.’ He stood and hovered over the man.
The little fellow rose shakily to his feet. He looked up once at Crispin again before he ducked into his stooped shoulders and shuffled toward the door.
The man said nothing more as he hurried in skipping strides through the muddied lanes deep into Westminster. There wasn’t much to the city. In fact, it could be more characterized as a village, with its sparse shops, houses, and wharfs. A suburb of London, it had yet to embrace the grandeur of that noble city. But Crispin had no doubt that someday it would. Its shops were serviceable, its houses for servants and shopkeepers, with a few noble houses for those that could not be retained within the palace walls, were sure to spread out like a tributary of the Thames.
The little man stopped at an inn and did not hesitate to go inside. Crispin followed, alert and engaged with every shadow, every dark corner. He followed the man up the stairs, across a gallery, and up to a chamber door, where the man knocked. The door opened, and the man standing in the doorway glanced at Crispin with an almost bored air.
Inside the room, Crispin noted that it was an antechamber, with another door toward the back. Men stood in one clutch at the other end of the room and, when they parted, revealed a table at which a man sat, playing at cards by himself. After a moment, he set the cards down and looked up. His dark brows lowered over brooding eyes and he took in Crispin with a calculated inspection. The man with the mustard-colored cotehardie who had tussled with John Rykener. There was still mud stains on his chest.
‘You are Master Deargh?’
The man gestured to the empty seat in front of him. ‘Take a chair, Master Guest.’