They hurried up to Holburn Street and there Crispin spied the commotion of milling people, their voices raised into a chatter. Crispin didn’t burst through as he was wont to do when he was a lord. Instead, he stood at the back, observing, listening to the snippets of what people were saying. But it wasn’t enough. He tapped a man on the shoulder.
The man turned a face of unkempt scruff and eyed Crispin under thick brows.
‘What’s happened?’
‘A man was struck and robbed, but the Tracker saved him and recovered the man’s goods.’
Crispin looked at Jack.
‘The Tracker, you say?’
‘Aye. Crispin Guest. Haven’t you ever heard of him?’
‘I have,’ Crispin admitted. He turned to his apprentice and asked quietly, ‘What curiosity is here? Jack, wriggle your way into this crowd to see what the devil is going on.’
‘Right, sir!’ In he went, as slick as an eel. All was forgotten in that moment, and anything about mysterious books that could bring down the very soul of the Church languished behind this new mystery.
He watched Jack move through the throng and then lost him. Crispin walked slowly around the circle of people, watching as they excitedly talked. Strange to watch people talk about him in this way, almost as if he were a ghost.
It wasn’t long till Jack made his way toward Crispin, dragging a man behind him.
Jack let the man go and nodded toward him. ‘Go on. Tell my master what you told me.’
The man – in his thirties, a tradesman of some kind, decent clothes, trimmed beard – looked Crispin over suspiciously. ‘As I was telling this young man here, I was robbed. I’m a cordwainer, and I was delivering my goods to my client. Two pairs of fine shoes I had just completed. A finer set of shoes you’ve never seen, good master.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Crispin impatiently. ‘And what happened?’
‘A man ran up behind me, slammed me at the back of my head, snatched my parcel, and started running. I yelled at the top of my lungs and gave chase. So did others on the street. He was bold as brass, was this thief. Then, out of nowhere, a man emerged from an alley. Drew his sword on the knave. The man dropped the parcel and ran off. The man with the sword sheathed it, picked up the parcel, and returned it to me. Oh, he had nice manners, like a lord. I thanked him, offered to pay him. He wouldn’t hear of it. Then he told me his name was Crispin Guest. You must know of that fellow. They call him the Tracker. He solves crimes.’
‘He does indeed,’ said Crispin with a scowl. ‘What did this man look like?’
‘Well, he was a man in middle years, black hair, gray eyes. Wearing a red cote-hardie and blue … stockings … say. He looks a lot like you, sir.’
‘Does he now?’
‘Funny that. You could be his brother. Well, I finally convinced him to take some coins for his deed. He saluted me and strode off. He finds things, doesn’t he? Lost things, so they say. He also confounds the sheriffs, beats them at their own game, finding murderers and such. Oh, I’ve heard all the tales but I never expected to meet him myself. I feel quite honored. They say he lives on Bread Street.’
‘That’s very interesting. Thank you.’
‘I don’t mind saying, I feel better on the streets of London knowing Crispin Guest is there.’
‘So do I,’ said Crispin with a sneer.
Jack stood beside him and watched the man depart. ‘What by God’s blood was all that?’ asked Jack. ‘You were with me the whole time.’
Crispin felt an uncomfortable war of feelings. Pride that the citizens of London were aware of his deeds, but strangely insulted that there was another taking credit for his work. Or were they? ‘It seems I have a double.’
‘Pardon my saying, sir, but … why? It isn’t as if … well …’
‘It isn’t worth impersonating me, as poor as I am, is what you meant. I well know it, Jack. But I am curious. Who is this miscreant who uses my name, and what could he be after?’
Jack screwed up his mouth and stood straighter. It seemed his indignity for his master was coming to the fore. ‘To Bread Street, sir?’
‘Most assuredly.’
Bread Street was full of bakers and the aromas were as sweet as the Shambles’ were sour. But since they didn’t know where this man’s lodgings were, they’d have to ask. Crispin pulled his hood up over his head. Even though it was warm, he thought it best to hide his face. ‘Jack, you should probably do the asking.’
Jack nodded. ‘Aye. That’s best.’ They approached a woman putting out round loaves of bread on her shop stall table. ‘I beg your mercy,’ said Jack with a fluid bow, ‘but I’ve heard that the Tracker Crispin Guest resides on this street.’
Her face burst into a smile. ‘You are correct, sir. I’d always heard he lived on the Shambles, but we are fortunate indeed to consider the Tracker in our own parish.’
‘We are in need of him, madam. Can you point out the house to me?’
‘Dear me,’ she said, a hand to her chest. ‘It is just past an alehouse, the Fox Tail. See the stake just down the lane?’
‘I do. Thank you, fair mistress.’ He bowed again, and she giggled at his courtly manner.
‘You do that very well,’ Crispin commented as they walked together up the street.
Jack blushed. ‘Oh, that. I’ve learned a thing or two as the Tracker’s apprentice.’
‘I wonder if you will meet your double as well?’
‘Eh?’ Jack’s cheer suddenly fell flat. ‘There had better not be!’
Crispin chuckled and proceeded up the street. They passed the ale stake and found a modest structure beside it, sharing a wall on one side, and an alley on the other. Crispin nodded for Jack to proceed and his apprentice knocked smartly on the door.
No one answered.
‘Must not be home yet,’ said Jack, gazing up and down the building. ‘What do you suppose he’s up to, master?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I am the last person anyone would wish to impersonate.’
‘What are we to do now?’
Crispin looked one way down the lane, and up the other. ‘Why … see inside.’ He rattled the door but it did not open. ‘Jack, do me the kindness of blocking me from the street.’
Jack moved to stand in front of Crispin, his hands at his hips so that his mantle was spread wide. Crispin knelt, got out his lock picks from his pouch, and worked on the lock. It was easily done and he stood, tapping Jack’s shoulder. In they both went into the darkened interior.
It was a simple one-room lodgings, much like his old place over the tinker shop, only a bit wider. One bed, a coffer, a table with four chairs, a stool by the hearth, and a few items on a pantry shelf.
Crispin looked over the razor and strop, picking them up. There was a comb and there were, indeed, black hairs still clinging to it.
He went over to the modest bed and sat on it. The crunch of straw under him made him feel somewhat better, since his mattress was stuffed with horsehair. He went to the coffer and lifted the lid. Extra chemise and braies, stockings. Nothing else of any consequence, but he took the items out and carefully laid them aside, first holding up the patched chemise to his own frame. He showed Jack who nodded in approval. The man was obviously Crispin’s match in height.
He next ran his hands on the inside walls of the emptied coffer, knocking on them, when something made a soft click and a secret door opened.
‘Oh ho,’ he murmured and looked in it. Coin and other gold baubles, brooches, necklaces. He wondered if this ‘Tracker’ came by them from fees or by some other means.
Jack whistled. ‘Look at that, master. You never got no fees like that.’
‘I’m beginning to think I’m underpaid.’ He shoved it all back in and clicked closed the door. He replaced the clothing items inside and shut the coffer’s lid. When he stood, he looked around the room, scratching his head.
‘I don’t know what’s going on here, Jack, but I will find out.’
‘Are we going to stay to wait for him?’
‘No. We have other business at Westminster.’
Jack looked around one more time. ‘At least there appears to be no other Jack Tucker.’
‘No, Jack. You are one of a kind indeed.’
Even so, Crispin hovered in the area, standing under the shadow of an eave and watching the place. No one came near it.
‘I can’t help wondering,’ said Jack, after they had started walking, ‘why a man would impersonate you. They say he solved crimes.’
‘I can’t begrudge him if he is doing good. But I cannot have a man steal my name. It’s all I’ve got left.’
‘You’ve got me, sir. And Isabel. And the children.’
‘I didn’t mean that. Of course I consider myself fortunate to have you and your family in my household. But … a man is only as good as his name. I haven’t anything else of value. Oh, I have my family ring and my sword, but nothing else. If a man goes about and uses my name, there’s no end of mischief that can be done. And, believe me, I’ve done enough harm to that name.’
‘The people love you now, sir. They’ve forgotten the … other.’
‘They’ve laid it aside, perhaps, but they have never forgotten that I committed treason all those years ago. And they never will.’
Jack was silent for a moment. Until … ‘It don’t matter to me.’
Crispin turned to watch the profile of his apprentice but said nothing. Something heavy, something deep inside his heart lifted. It was revelatory that each time Jack expressed such an opinion it should carry so much weight.
But well before they reached Charing Cross or the towers of Westminster Abbey came into view, Crispin stopped. Jack stumbled as he looked behind him at his master. ‘What’s amiss, sir?’
‘Jack, the more I think on it, the more I believe it not a good idea to talk with Abbot William about this.’
‘Eh? Why not?’
‘Because the abbot would be obliged to destroy such a book.’
‘He wouldn’t be far wrong, if you ask me.’
‘But you see, Jack. Someone has gone to the trouble to deliver this to me. To me. He could have very well destroyed the book himself. But he didn’t. He came to me and told me I’d know what to do.’
Jack set his fists to his hips. ‘And do you?’
Crispin huffed a bitter laugh. ‘No, by God. But I cannot hand it over to be destroyed. Not yet. Not until I find out why this has been given to me. I’ll tell you what you should do.’ He pulled the scrip’s strap over his head and proffered the bundle. ‘You take this back home and secure it. I have some thinking to do.’
‘You aren’t coming home?’
‘In a while. I must think first.’
Jack pulled the strap reluctantly over his shoulder, letting it land diagonally across his chest. ‘Well, I’ll be waiting, master.’ He strode back the way they had come, glancing back over his shoulder with a frown.
Crispin threw back his hood and ran his hand through his hair. Think, yes, but what to think? He’d never find that man again, the man who gave him the parcel. How could he ever discover his purpose?
With careful strides, he, too, started back toward London, staring down at the stony road ahead of him.
So deep was he in contemplation – of this hand and that hand and choices back and forth – that, when he looked up, he was surprised to find he had walked past the Shambles and on to Mercery Lane. And with a ‘God’s blood’ on his lips, he further realized he was standing in front of the Walcote residence.
‘Damn,’ he muttered. And the front door to it was opening. Like any thief – or fool, he chided himself – he ran for the nearest corner and hid in the shadows. But instead of going onward as he should have done, he clung to that corner and watched, hoping – dreading – for a glimpse of her.
And there she was. Philippa Walcote, married to surely the richest cloth merchant in London. She had been a scullion in that household and had risen far above her station when she married Nicholas Walcote. But he had turned out not to be who he had said he was. And murdered, to boot. Murdered because he masqueraded as Nicholas but was an imposter. In the end, she had married the real Nicholas’s brother, Clarence, and had kept her place after all.
Yet during that time when Crispin himself investigated the murder and theft of a relic, he had fallen in love with the brash Philippa, and she with him. But in those long-ago days, he had been too proud to bring a scullion to wife.
She was still beautiful, still rosy-cheeked, her hair bright like brass, caught up in a fashionable horned headdress and covered with a gold netting veil. She was holding the hand of her young son, now ten years old. Crispin’s breath caught. He had not seen the boy for some years, and now, more than ever before, he was struck at how much the boy looked like him … for it was his son. Christopher.
He thanked God Clarence Walcote didn’t have a clue.
Watching them avidly, he memorized their features, hungry to talk to them but knowing well he was best out of their lives.
And then the boy spotted him.
Crispin jerked and tried to vanish around the corner.
‘Master Crispin! Is that you, sir?’ the boy called out. A male servant with them tried to hush the boy.
Caught. It was useless to run, to ignore the summons. But worse. He didn’t want to.
Slowly, he revealed himself and stood firmly on the lane. He bowed stiffly. ‘Master Walcote. It has been many a day.’ He flicked a glance at Philippa, who was gazing at Crispin with a tender expression.
The boy’s face screwed up with anger. ‘Master Guest, you told me a fib. You said you would return to teach me arms.’ The boy was all seriousness and carried himself much like a lord. Crispin swore at himself for allowing this. He hadn’t been careful and he well knew he’d done it on purpose.
‘It made me sad, sir, that you would abandon me so. And we’d become such friends. Or so I thought.’ His face drooped to melancholy and the sight of it made Crispin’s heart lurch.
The boy had grown since last he’d seen him two years ago. He was taller, more graceful. His black hair shone blue in the sunshine, and his gray eyes scrutinized Crispin judiciously.
Crispin bowed again. ‘My heartfelt apologies, Master Christopher. But I had much work to attend to. And I feared to interrupt your studies. You should know, however,’ he said, taking a step closer, ‘that you could never lose me as a friend.’
The child’s face cheered. ‘I’m heartily glad to hear it. And as far as interrupting my studies, bah! I could always have found time. Couldn’t I, Mother?’
She patted his hand and released him. ‘You well know Master Guest is a busy and important man.’ Her accent was still that of the scullery, though she worked hard to pronounce each word and lessen the harshness of it.
‘I know, Mother. I listen to tales of Master Guest all the time,’ he said eagerly. ‘Mother and I are shopping today, but you must come back and do as you promised, Master Crispin.’
Crispin hesitated. He didn’t want to lie to the child, but he didn’t see how he could be seen at the house. It wouldn’t be long till a servant speculated as to why the child looked more like him than his own father.
Philippa rescued them both. ‘You mustn’t delay Master Guest. Can’t you see he’s on his way somewhere? Now run along ahead with John, Christopher.’ She nodded to their servant. ‘I will talk to Master Guest.’
‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘You promise? I will see you again?’
‘Go on now,’ said Philippa, shooing him on.
Their retainer followed the boy. Christopher skipped onward, turning to wave. ‘God keep you, Master Crispin!’
Once he and his servant disappeared around the bend in the road, Crispin hastily turned to her. ‘I apologize for presenting myself. I never meant for you to see me.’
She smiled. A dimple in her cheek had always meant mischief. ‘And yet we did. In fact …’ Her heavy-lidded eyes looked away, surreptitiously scanning the street. ‘I’ve seen you many a time outside our house, hiding in the shadows. Not so stealthy, are you, Master Tracker.’
His face burned with embarrassment. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t trying as hard as I could have done.’ He winced at his blatant foolishness and dared raise his eyes to her face. How he wanted to kiss her! But out in the street as they were, it was impossible. And anyway, he wouldn’t – couldn’t – cuckold Clarence Walcote, who had been kind to him.
‘How are you?’ he asked softly.
‘I am well.’
‘And … Christopher?’
Surprised and suddenly stiff that she should slip her arm in his, he did his best to comport himself with dignity as they walked slowly down the lane. ‘He was in a state after … after what happened. His best friend, after all. He was devastated that you left and never returned, never fully explaining to him what had transpired. He thought it was his fault that he had somehow lost your friendship.’
‘Damn. I never meant for that to happen. Did you tell him? Explain to him why I couldn’t—’
‘I did my best to explain that you were still his friend, even though he had lost the other who was dear to him. That … you might return to him some day.’
‘But you must surely see why I can’t.’
‘Oh yes. He is the very image of you. And even Clarence might come to notice …’
‘Yes. I mustn’t return.’
‘But perhaps … he can come to you.’
A flame of hope burned in his chest. He had wanted to get to know his son. To simply know that he was out there in London kept his heart lighter than it had ever been. But he hadn’t dared dream it possible to know the boy and the boy to know him.
‘That might work …’
‘There are things he should learn. Things that only you can teach him.’
He reined in his excitement. ‘He already asked once why we looked so much alike.’
‘Hmm. He is a clever boy.’ She squinted into the sunshine before gazing at Crispin with those sultry eyes he could not make himself forget. ‘Perhaps some day when he’s old enough to understand …’
‘We’ll see.’ But secretly, Crispin hoped.
‘And how is Master Tucker? He was quite the young man when last I saw him.’
‘Well and truly married, with two children and another on the way. The oldest … they named him after me.’
She stopped. ‘Oh Crispin! What a fine testament to you.’
His cheeks burned again. He couldn’t deny he was proud that they’d done it. ‘Yes. Well …’
‘That must be a full household. Are you pleased?’
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I am unaccountably pleased at it. I’ve … changed, Philippa.’
‘Indeed, you must have. Is this the same man who refused to wed a scullion?’
‘You don’t know for how many years I have regretted that decision.’
‘Well! You have changed.’
‘Too late, I’m afraid. Too late for us.’
She laid a hand to his arm. He felt it burn him. ‘But not too late for another. Crispin, you need not be alone.’
‘I am not alone. I have a herd of Tuckers under my feet.’ The truth of it eased the hurt a little.
‘So you do.’ She appraised him boldly before dropping her eyes and her hand from his arm. ‘Much time has passed. We are all different these days.’
‘Nothing is amiss at home, is there? Clarence is good to you, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, aye. He is ever kind. A good husband and father.’
Crispin tried to keep his face neutral.
‘You’re thinking very loudly, Master Guest,’ she said with a laugh.
He scowled. ‘Madam, do you presume to know what I am thinking?’
‘I know exactly what you’re thinking.’ She reached up and kissed his cheek lightly. It flushed his face with heat. ‘And I love you all the more for it.’
‘Philippa!’ he rasped, looking up and down the lane.
‘It is true. I will not deny it.’
He pressed his arms to his sides, fisting his hands. It was the only way he could keep from embracing her. ‘And I love you still,’ he said quietly. ‘I prayed for relief, but God will not grant it to me. Perhaps I am too much of a sinner.’
‘Nonsense. You are a kind and honorable man. The Almighty knows it, surely.’
They gazed at each other. He sopped up her features like bread in a bowl, trying to hold them dear, when he realized she was doing the same thing.
Reluctantly, he bowed. ‘It was a pleasure seeing you again, madam.’
She clasped her hands together, perhaps for the same reason Crispin clenched his fists. ‘For me as well. Be looking for a message from me. I’m sure Christopher will be pleased to meet with you.’
‘Philippa … do you truly think that this is a good idea?’
‘Having a child has taught me much, Crispin. It has taught me that there is a great deal I would sacrifice for his sake. And I would even risk losing him if in knowing himself better – knowing you and who you are – he would come to hate me for it.’
‘Never that. He’d be a fool.’
‘When he knows the truth some day, he might.’
He expected tears in her eyes, and perhaps if she were any other woman there might have been. But in her eyes, he saw only determination.
He bowed again. ‘As you wish. I fear I cannot deny you anything you ask of me.’
‘Anything?’ There was a sparkle in her eye. ‘We shall have to see about that.’ Before he could admonish her, she turned away, leaving him a view of sparkling netting and a long trailing skirt.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Damn the woman. But it was good to see her, to talk with her. The smile on his face didn’t surprise him.
He turned and made his way between the houses and abruptly stopped short. That beggar was there again, eyeing him warily. He didn’t want to draw his sword, but he kept it in mind.
‘Are you following me, knave?’
The beggar sat with his knees drawn up. His stockings were more holes than material. His cote-hardie was in tatters, but his leather hood – which had seen better days – was still useful to cover his head. His unfocused eyes turned toward Crispin. ‘Ah, it’s the man who listens to the dead. The other man, that is.’
‘I don’t listen to the dead. Why would you say such a thing?’
‘Oh, but you do, master. Just as I do. They speak to me, especially the newly dead. Or the soon to be. It’s the murdered that talk to you and you listen, don’t you? You hear them as clear as I am speaking to you.’ He rose unsteadily, using the wall to brace himself. Stalking toward Crispin, he got in close. ‘I hear them too!’ he whispered.
‘Away with you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You do. I know you do. You’re hearing them even now. It’s a tinny sound because they’re not dead yet but they will be.’
That shiver crossed his shoulders again. Crispin leaned in. ‘Stay away from me.’
‘I’m not lying.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘Am I?’ He scratched his chin through his unkempt beard. ‘Aye, maybe so, maybe so. But you know I’m not lying. Listen to the voices of the dead. Listen and hear.’ He pointed a dirty finger at Crispin’s face and stumbled away.
Unnerved, Crispin watched him go. It was a madman’s ravings but, even so, he couldn’t help but feel something in his prophesying voice. Something he did not want to hear.
He shook it loose. He didn’t need the distraction. Between Philippa and this book, he had enough distractions to last a lifetime.
He hurried on and, taking a shortcut back to the Shambles at the mouth of another alley, he found his way barred again, this time by two men.
He tried to skirt past them with a polite, ‘I beg your mercy.’ But when they stepped back into his path, he squared his shoulders. ‘Is there a reason you are preventing me from proceeding, gentlemen?’
And they were gentlemen, from the sheen of their velvet cote-hardies to the fit of their stockings. The dark-bearded one huffed a breath. ‘We want a word with you … Crispin Guest.’
Crispin eyed them both, noted that they both had swords. ‘State your purpose then.’
‘You must come with us.’
‘Indeed. Where?’
‘Don’t ask questions. Just comply.’
‘I’m rarely in the habit of complying when two churls greet me in an alley—’
The punch to his jaw was unexpected. He landed on his arse. Raising a hand to rub at his chin, he felt blood. Sticking his tongue out, he licked it away from the side of his mouth. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘You’ll get more of the same if you don’t do as we say.’
Crispin took his time getting to his feet and wiping the dirt from his cote-hardie. ‘You should apologize to me.’
The men looked at one another and laughed. It was true that they were both taller than Crispin, and wider across the chest and shoulders. A wiser man might have been intimidated. But at the moment, Crispin was more angry than wise.
‘I said …’ Crispin slowly drew his sword with the whisper of steel on leather. Even in the shadows, the sun caught an edge and sent a shard of light over the men’s faces. ‘Apologize!’
In answer they drew their own weapons.
‘If that’s the way you want it.’
Crispin didn’t wait. He charged them, arcing his blade toward their shins. They blocked his sword with their own in a clash of metal and sparks. Stepping back, Crispin assessed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw people fleeing near the alley entrance. No one wanted to get in the way of a sword fight.
Crispin wiped his other hand over his mouth, swiping the blood away. ‘What is your game?’ he asked the men. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘Our master wishes to speak with you.’
‘And he would do so from the edge of a blade?’
‘If necessary. We were told to bring you to him … upright or limp.’
‘And who is your master?’
The clean-shaven man only grinned. He lunged and Crispin parried the sword out of the way. A sword came at him from the other direction. Crispin slid around the man and spun, slicing outward with his own blade toward the bearded man.
Steel caught sleeve and flesh. The man’s cry was almost anticlimactic. Crispin turned and caught the sword from the other with his own and struck hard, slapping it away.
Crispin was already winded. He hadn’t done such swordplay in a while and he was older than these two. If he had been practicing every day as he used to do, as Lancaster had, he would be in fine shape. As it was … What he couldn’t do with strength he’d have to do with cunning.
He went on the offensive and slashed again at the bearded man’s shins. Tactical and expeditious in battle, any knight feared to be laid low by a cut to their legs. The man backed away, parrying the blows away with his steel.
Clean-shaven tried to approach Crispin from another angle but Crispin used the same tactic against him, and he, too, defended his legs, backing away.
There was only one way out of this. Crispin kept Bearded Man back with wild swoops of his blade, while he kicked dirt up into Clean-shaven’s face. The man took but a moment to wipe at his eyes, but that was all Crispin needed to spin and force his blade up to the man’s neck. Clean-shaven froze.
‘That was a wise decision,’ said Crispin, close to his face and trying not to pant. Bearded Man stopped his approach. ‘I won’t have any compunction about killing your companion,’ he told the other. Crispin pressed the edge of the steel that much more into the man’s fleshy neck. Clean-shaven cringed but forced himself not to move a muscle.
‘Drop the sword.’
Clean-shaven did so with an echoing clang.
‘Now you,’ said Crispin to the other. But Bearded Man did not seem as anxious to comply. ‘Do you care nothing for your compatriot?’
Bearded Man scowled. He hoisted his sword, changing his grip on the hilt. Suddenly, he heaved it forward toward Crispin.
‘God’s blood!’ Crispin ducked, using his sword to bat it away from his head. The flying sword rang against the stone wall behind him.
When he looked up again, Clean-shaven had managed to slip away and was gripping his sword in his hand again. And his angry grimace showed no quarter. Without looking away from Crispin, Clean-shaven kicked Bearded Man’s blade toward his companion, who picked it up.
Crispin blew his fringe away from his eyes and crouched, his sword at the ready. ‘That didn’t turn out as I expected.’
They both swung. Crispin ducked and darted toward the opening of the alley. Footsteps behind told him all he needed to know.
He ran harder, glanced back. Yes, they were hot on his heels. Damn! There would be no point in stopping and turning to fight. Perhaps in another day when he was at his peak, but that day had long passed.
‘Get out of the way!’ he cried to the people on the street in front of him. He waved his sword and they screamed, falling to the sides. If he could get enough in front of his pursuers, get to a roof somehow, he could drop down on them. But for now, running was his only course … and he was already tired.
He wove in and out of backstreets and closes, but always he heard their footsteps ringing out and echoing off the shopfronts and houses hard behind him.
Someone dumped their rubbish out the window, barely missing him, but it landed on his foes. He heard their curses and their slowing steps. He sent up a prayer of thanks to that unknown woman.
He turned a corner and made a dash for the main road. And it would have gone well for him if that barrel-shaped carriage hadn’t suddenly pulled into his way.
He tucked his sword to his side, cast his arm over his face, and hit the canvas side hard enough to tear it.
He landed with a thump on the carriage floor, somewhat amazed that he had survived intact. When he looked up, he wasn’t so sure his survival was worth it.
The Duke of Lancaster crouched beside his mistress Katherine Swynford, and they were both staring at Crispin with widened eyes.