Serpent in the Thorns

3

CRISPIN TOOK THE KEY to the box, fit it in the lock, and turned it. He lifted the box’s lid. Within sat another box made of gold, studded with gems. Livith stepped closer.

“Mary’s blessed dugs!” she whispered over his shoulder. “That’s solid gold, that!”

“I doubt it is solid gold,” said Crispin. But he felt as excited as any thief peering at the royal treasury. With both hands, he lifted the golden casket free of the wooden box and set it on the table.

“Was he killed for this?” she asked.

“If that is so, he was killed in vain.” The courier’s letter mentioned other companions and Crispin wondered about those men. Where were they? Also dead? Or perhaps simply guilty of murder.

“Could he have been shot outside and made his way in here?”

Crispin glanced along the earthen floor to the entry and saw no blood, no scrapings of staggering steps along the dirt. “The evidence does not bear it out.” He grasped the lid and opened. The box was lined in red velvet. In its center indentation sat a wreath made of rushes woven in a decorative pattern of diamonds and zigzags. Large black thorns were thrust here and there within the rush circlet, some three to four inches long. Crispin ran a finger along one of the pronged spikes. “Curious.”

“What is it?”

“I have no idea. It looks like some sort of circlet . . . with thorns. Very unpleasant.”

“A crown of thorns?”

“Crown of thorns?” He looked at her. “You may be right.”

“Not the Crown of Thorns?” She took a step back, grasping her patched skirt with chapped fingers.

“No, but possibly a crown of thorns, used for feast days.” He closed the lid and ran his hand over the gold and gems. He picked it up again, replaced it into the wooden box, put that back into the courier bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Here! What are you going to do with that?” Livith’s hands gestured toward the pouch, fingers moving, grasping.

That much gold would be a king’s ransom to the likes of her. Come to think of it, the same would be true for me. “If it’s any business of yours, I’m taking it for safekeeping. As for him—” He glanced back at the dead man. “I will have to call in the sheriff.”

“But he’ll arrest Grayce!”

Grayce leapt up and threw her arms about Livith.

“She is surely innocent,” said Crispin. “I can make the sheriff see that.”

“But I’m not!” she cried between sobs. “I shot him.”

Livith glared up at Crispin. “What will the sheriff make of that?”

Crispin sighed. He pictured Wynchecombe’s face. “I’m afraid he’ll hang her.” Grayce wailed and Livith tried to calm her with cooing sounds. She held Grayce’s shoulders and rocked her.

Crispin rubbed his stubbled chin and considered. The first priority was to get Grayce the hell out of here, but he couldn’t take both women back to his lodgings. His landlord’s harridan of a wife would raise the devil.

He thought about his dry throat and decided a trip to the Boar’s Tusk was in order.

* * *

CRISPIN LEFT THE WOMEN alone to survey the yard, looking for clues that did not materialize. The women gathered their meager belongings quickly and soon joined him. They set out toward the Shambles in silence, but it didn’t last. Livith dragged Grayce behind her. “God’s teeth, be still, Grayce! You’re wearing me out!” Grayce’s cries fell silent except for an occasional sniffle. Livith left Grayce to shuffle along in the mud behind while Livith trotted up to Crispin, boldly appraising him. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t like Livith’s tone or her constant use of foul language. She was the lowest kind of wench, little better than a whore. “A friend of mine owns a tavern,” he said. “He’ll hire you both and give you lodgings. It’s temporary until all this blows over.”

“Just like that. No asking us what we’d sarding like?”

Crispin stopped. Livith ran into him before she could stop herself. He leaned toward her and scowled. “Are you actually ungrateful? You do recall I’m saving your hides, and with very little hope of remuneration for my effort.”

She nodded to the parcel slung over his shoulder. “Looks like you got plenty right there.”

“The gold box? It does not belong to me. Nor to you, so get those ideas out of your head.”

She steadied her gaze on his face and stood so close he felt her fiery breath on his lips. He was angry, but staring at her at such close range made him rethink the situation. Her heavy brows seemed on first glance unattractive, but such bold strokes served to give her face more expression and animation. Her mouth was small but possessed a certain tartness a fuller set of lips lacked—though he feared she would open that mouth again and he’d have to endure a string of unwholesome taunts.

“And I urge you to curb your tongue,” he said. “The Boar’s Tusk may be on Gutter Lane but I do not tolerate gutter language.”

“You don’t?” Her lips twisted artfully. “Well, I beg his majesty’s pardon.”

Crispin’s frown deepened. “You think this a game? It’s your sister’s life you gamble with.”

Livith dropped her eyes and toed the ground with her muddy wooden shoes. “We’ve never needed some knight in shining armor rescuing us.”

Crispin’s frown firmed into a tight line. “Well, I’m no knight.”

“Grayce and me have done fine on our own. It ain’t our fault some poor bastard got himself killed in our lodgings. What are we to do? That was our life back there. And just like that it’s snuffed out.”

“There is little I can do about the circumstances. And though it may not be your fault a man died in your lodgings, it certainly does not help your cause when your sister keeps confessing to the crime. But if you don’t need my help—” He straightened his shoulders and pulled at his patched coat. “I’ll be on my way.”

He took several steps before she grabbed his arm. She lowered her face and bit her lip. He had a feeling she wasn’t used to asking for help. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful,” she said. This time he sensed her sincerity. “But I—I—”

“Don’t know how to be grateful?” He snorted a halfhearted chuckle. “Neither do I.”

Her face changed when she looked at him. Her demeanor seemed to lighten, finding a kindred spirit, perhaps. How long had she suffered with her dim-witted sister? Grayce did not look more than twenty and Livith maybe a few years older, though the worry line that divided her brow and the dark pouches under her eyes added years to her. She managed a smile. It took those years off again. “Lead on, then,” she said and gestured him forward like a noblewoman.

Crispin hid his smile and proceeded on, helping her over the bigger puddles in spite of himself. Grayce followed, carrying the heavy bundle of their goods.

The Boar’s Tusk crouched on its corner of Gutter Lane like a great sleeping turtle. Long before Crispin’s day, it had boasted the patronage of knights and lords, but the passage of time changed the parish, and now only ruffians made the Boar’s Tusk their home. Crispin preferred it that way. Its timber frame was grayed from the weather and the speckled daub had needed refreshing for years, but its great oaken doors were as strong as ever. Needed to be to keep out would-be thieves at night.

He pushed open the door and scanned the low-slung room. Dark, except for a few sputtering oil lamps on the tables and a large hearth burning with decent-sized logs. The heavy beams above seemed as old as Merlin, and Crispin often wondered with their weathered and cracked state if they had the integrity to uphold the roof at all.

Under the uncertain beams, uneven rectangular tables crowded together and were sparsely filled with men hunched over their horn cups, eyes shadowed by hoods or dark deeds.

The tavern’s owners, however, were the opposite of its dilapidated plaster and frame. Though they trafficked in the rougher elements of Gutter Lane, Gilbert and Eleanor Langton were kind and generous souls. They somehow did not belong where their sad tavern gripped its foundations, but it would be a poorer place indeed without them.

Crispin spied Eleanor sweeping the floor with a gorse broom and yelling at a servant over a spilled tray.

Crispin approached. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Eleanor spun. “Oh Crispin! Bless my soul.” She grinned and hugged him. The white linen wimple, wrapped about her face in folds and tucks, revealed only her face’s smooth contours. An ageless face. Crispin reckoned she might be thirty like himself, but he wasn’t certain. “I was just telling this knave,” she said, gesturing with the broom toward the servant, “what a wastrel he is, dropping good food onto my floor.”

The servant glanced up with hangdog eyes. He scooped a swath of debris onto his tray. “She was ‘telling’ me awful loud.”

Crispin nodded. “I have been under that glare myself, Ned, many a time.”

“Make haste, Ned,” she barked and smoothed her spotted apron. She looked up and only then noticed Livith and Grayce standing behind Crispin. Her brows drew down and her wimple with it, making her face appear only as a small horizontal oval. “What’s this?”

Crispin pulled her aside and said quietly, “Nell, I have a favor to ask.”

“Oh no, Crispin. Not again. Why do you use our poor establishment as a dumping ground for your discards?”

Crispin drew himself up. This was the second time this morning a woman accused him of lechery. Not that he wasn’t often guilty, but his innocent protestations today seemed to fall on deaf ears. “They are not my ‘discards,’ ” he said in a rumbling tone. “They are my clients. They need my help and I need yours.”

She rolled her eyes and folded her arms over her chest. “What will Gilbert say? I tell you, Crispin, you take too many liberties.”

“That may be so, but this is urgent.”

She clutched the broom and made a few conciliatory sweeps. “It always is.”

He considered offering money in compensation, but the thought didn’t stay long. He had no money at the moment and, indeed, owed Gilbert and Eleanor much already. He softened his tone. “Nell.” He smiled. A foul trick, but it usually worked. “The sheriff will be after them, and they need a hiding place. Can you find it in your heart to hire them and keep them here? I would be grateful. It is only temporary until they can return to their lodgings and their situations.”

“Aw now, Crispin.” She glared at the women. “Well, if it’s to grate Wynchecombe. But only temporarily, mind. Ned is enough trouble for any establishment. Costs are high and payments—few,” she said pointedly, rubbing her fingers together.

Crispin bowed formally. “Thank you, Eleanor.”

Livith pushed Grayce behind her and raised her sharp chin proudly. “You called us your clients. That means we must needs pay you. What is your fee?”

Crispin thought briefly of declining payment as a chivalrous act. But it had been a long time since he could afford the luxury of chivalry. “Sixpence a day. Plus more for expenses.”

She drew in her shoulders and sighed before reaching for the small purse attached to her belt. She poured out its contents into her palm. Four pence, one farthing. She raised her face. “That’s all I have.” But her eyes traveled back to the bag on Crispin’s shoulder.

Crispin scooped up three of the coins to change the direction of her thinking. “I’ll take thruppence now. You can pay me later. You’ll earn your food and board here, so you will have few expenses.” He slipped the coins into his own purse and cleared his throat. “Off with you now. I’ll see you here from time to time to let you know the tidings.”

“And when can we return to the King’s Head?”

“That may not be possible.”

The sisters looked at Eleanor.

Crispin made the introductions. “This is your new mistress, Eleanor Langton. Nell, this is Livith and her sister Grayce.”

Eleanor frowned. “Very well. Off to the kitchens with you.” She gestured with the broom.

The sisters headed toward the kitchen, but Livith looked back at Crispin. “What about that box, then? You can lick more gold off of that than can be had in this place.”

Crispin tightened his hold on the strap. “I say again. This is not your property, nor mine. In fact, were either of us to be found with it, it would most certainly mean our deaths. Is that what you want?”

She looked once at the satchel over Crispin’s shoulder and shivered. “Aye, I get your meaning at last.” She turned and disappeared through the archway.

Eleanor shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Your heart is bigger than your head, sometimes. I know you won’t admit it, but you are as soft as dough.”

Crispin said nothing. Feeling the small weight of coins in his pouch, he was loath to agree, but knew the truth of it.

“Would you stay, Crispin?” Eleanor set her broom aside and grabbed a drinking jug of wine, wiping its dewy spout with her apron. “Have a cup with me?”

He glanced toward the kitchen archway again and thought staying might be pleasant. But the weight of the courier’s bag hanging from his shoulder preyed on him. As did Jack Tucker’s hurried appearance and exit this morning. “As much as I would like to,” he said, “I fear I have other business to conduct.” Possibly the warmth and familiarity of the room enticed him to relax too much, or perhaps it was Eleanor’s bright eyes and sincere expression that drew the confession from him. He sniffed the smoky hearth and looked at his favorite spot in the corner with a sigh. “Jack is in trouble. I don’t know what to do.”

“Again? That boy. He needs a firm hand, Crispin. He’s had to care for himself for so long he doesn’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. It’s up to you. He is like a son to you. It’s time you treat him as such.”

“Nonsense. He’s twelve. That’s old enough to take care of himself. At his age, I had already begun my arms practice and supervised Lancaster’s London mills.”

“The duke was kind to you and acted as foster father, did he not?”

“Yes.” John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, was never far from Crispin’s thoughts. He barely remembered his own father, who died when he was seven. It was Lancaster’s face he saw when he thought of “father,” even though Lancaster was now an estranged one.

“Are you saying I should be more solicitous to the boy?”

“I’m saying he needs guidance. And who better?”

He felt an ache in the back of his neck. “I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted a servant.”

“Yet now you have one.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “But isn’t young Jack more than a servant?” Eleanor wore her matronly smile. It had the power to either annoy or mollify him. Today he couldn’t tell which it was.

What could he say to her words? He wondered just what his responsibilities to Jack Tucker were. He had met the twelve-year-old only a few months ago when the young thief tried to steal Crispin’s purse. It was Jack who had insinuated himself into Crispin’s life as his servant, not the other way around. The boy could barely be trusted to keep his hands to himself even after many promises.

He made his thanks to Eleanor but offered no reply to her entreaty. He didn’t really want to see the boy hanged, but if Jack didn’t curb his ways, that was all that was left to him.

CRISPIN TRUDGED BACK TO the Shambles under a fine spray of drizzle. Up the steps to his lodgings, he unlocked the door and swept the room with a glance. No Jack, as usual. He dropped the bag on the table and poured himself more wine into the bowl that he had offered to Grayce. The wine burned down his throat with a satisfying heat, and he licked his lips. He felt better already.

He looked at the bundle on the table, took his bowl with him, and tossed aside the bag’s top flap. He ran his hand over the carved wood, turned the key, and opened the lid. The gold box seemed to glow from its place within the wooden casket. He set the bowl down and pulled out the golden box. Besides the gems that encrusted the casket, there were raised friezes of Christ’s journey to the cross encircling it, all crafted in beaten gold. He lifted the lid and stared at the strange object within. “Crown of Thorns,” he muttered. A fingertip toyed with a particularly nasty spike before he drew the circlet out of its container and held it aloft. He turned the crown to examine it. Chuckling, he darted his gaze about the obviously empty room, shook his head at his wary suspicions, and placed it on his head.

“The suffering servant,” he said without mirth. “That’s me.” He caught his reflection in the brass mirror pegged to a post above the basin and water jug. The crown had little appeal and did not improve his features. His blurry image suddenly made him feel like a fool, and he lifted the crown from his head. But in the indistinct reflection he noticed something dark on his wide brow and he raised his fingers there. Blood.

He examined the inside of the crown. He hadn’t felt any pain when he wore it, but there within were prickly thorns, and what looked like the vestiges of winding stems, all black with age. He placed the crown back within its reliquary and touched his wounds again. “Treacherous little relic.” Walking to the window overlooking the street, he pulled open the shutters. He leaned out and took a deep breath. The smell of the Shambles did not overpower today. Perhaps the wind blew in the opposite direction. Whatever the case, he suddenly felt too cooped up in the room. And he did have the task of reporting to the sheriff about the dead man.

Closing the shutters, he threw open the door and trotted down the stairs. He thought about food—he hadn’t eaten since last night—but didn’t feel hungry. He reached the bottom step and inhaled again, as if the act of filling his lungs and widening his rib cage were a new experience. In fact, the air was unaccountably renewing. So much so that he felt like leaping into the street. He wanted to run up the avenue like a young boy, like he used to do down the long lane from Lancaster’s house in the country to its main road. Strange, but exhilarating, this feeling.

And he wanted to forget his troubles—to forget Jack Tucker and his thieving ways, to forget the harsh looks from former peers when he made the odd encounter on the street. He wanted to allow these new sensations to wash over him, to take him like a rushing river far beyond these troubled shoals. His chest felt warm and his limbs bursting with energy. Strange, these feelings. But not unwelcome. Oh no. To feel such a sudden surge of fire in his blood brought him back to his knightly days when his hand curled around a sword hilt and he sped into battle, Lancaster at his side. Yes! It was very like that feeling. He was giddy with it. He hopped down into the street to take it in. He had a bright awareness of the world. The colors of garments were deeper. The smells of the street were stronger but not unpleasant. The men hurrying along, their bundles over their shoulders, seemed infinitely more interesting than before. He took a step into the muddy street . . . and stopped.

Martin Kemp’s plump daughter Matilda blocked his progress.

Crispin’s abrupt elation was sucked away like water down a gutter, especially when her gaze roved over him, a gaze that might hold more than insolence.

“Going somewhere?” she asked. Her small, piggy eyes blinked with what he thought was an attempt at coquette. On her it was a sloppy interpretation. “You’re always off somewhere. Out ‘Tracking,’ eh?” She giggled. It reminded Crispin of chickens clucking.

“Indeed.”

Still her wide hips blocked his path. “Oh. You’ve hurt yourself.” She pointed to the wounds along his forehead. He felt a trickle of blood and wiped it away. “You should put something on that,” she said. “It looks painful.”

“It isn’t, I assure you.”

“I could give you something. I could make a poultice.”

He gave a brief, insincere smile. “No, thank you.”

Once more, he tried to sidestep her but she moved to block him. “Always, you are so busy, so much in haste,” she said, twining the end of her apron around her fingers.

“I must work for my keep. As do you and your family.”

“Why is it you never take board with us? You’ve lived here four years and you’ve never done so.”

“I do not pay for board. It makes the rent cheaper.” And I don’t have to eat my meals looking at you. He longed to say it aloud. His tongue tingled with the possibility.

She shrugged, as if money were of little consequence. “You don’t always have to eat here. I sometimes sup with my friends. Sometimes at the Rose. And sometimes even at the King’s Head, though Mother would hide me good if she knew. You might want to come, too.”

“I do not advise your going to the King’s Head today. There may be trouble.”

She giggled again, an unpleasant rumbling of her throat. “You’re always after trouble, aren’t you? My father says that you were once a knight, but I don’t think that’s true.”

Crispin rested his hand on his knife hilt. He itched to draw it, but he snipped off the ends of his words instead. “Oh? And what drew you to that conclusion?”

She eyed the street and wrinkled her nose. “No knight would live here, to be sure. And you used to do my father’s books. I’ve never seen any lordly men about here looking for you. Come now. Weren’t you a steward and just liked to pretend you were more?” The last was surely her mother’s voice. He’d heard that tone too many times before. “It doesn’t vex me, of course. You can pretend to be whoever you like.”

For a moment, he started his usual reaction to her uncouth comments, which meant a low growl and getting out of her way before he sputtered an inappropriate reply. But a surge of self-assurance swelled his chest again, pushing back the subservient tilt of his head. With a pounding heart, he remembered such a feeling, the very same he felt on the lists just before the charge, lance at the ready, blood rising, horse beneath him toeing the earth.

He loomed over her, his mouth set in a scowl. “Listen, you spoiled whelp. I was a knight. Why should I pretend I was better than I was? The only reason I haven’t slit your throat now is because I like and respect Martin Kemp. But do not try my patience.”

Her mouth flopped open. She put her trembling pink fingers to her throat but made no sound.

It felt marvelous. He’d wanted to mouth those words to her for a long time. Something had always curbed his tongue. But not today. He fisted the hilt of his dagger, though it took all his strength not to draw it.

“Now. Are you going to get out of my way, or do I have to throw you aside?”

She shrieked and tumbled after herself to scramble out of the way. Crispin caught a glimpse of a blue stocking before she made her escape back into the Kemp family quarters. He heard her muffled screech to her mother beyond the walls and took this as the perfect moment to leave.

He swaggered onto the muddy street, feeling as proud as a cockerel. There was nothing more satisfying than brutalizing Matilda Kemp, except for, perhaps, Alice Kemp. Poor Martin. The tinker would get the brunt of it. With a disgusted sigh, Crispin knew he would eventually have to apologize with promises of good behavior. He needed these lodgings. They were all he could afford.

He smiled. But he didn’t have to apologize just this moment, and causing that horror on her face was satisfying.

Pleased with himself, he dug into the street with sure steps, until a large man casually bumped him. The tall, wide-shouldered man continued on but Crispin whirled, grabbed his arm, and spun him. “Here now,” he said, pulling his dagger at last. “You did not apologize for jolting me. I think it’s owed.”

The squared-jawed man stared at Crispin. “Unhand me. I owe you nought.”

“This dagger says you do.”

“You threaten me?” The man pulled his blade and he looked down at Crispin. His stout arms looked as if they could snap Crispin like a twig, yet Crispin felt no fear of him.

Crispin even smiled. “I have not drawn another’s blood in at least a sennight. And my blade is thirsty. Do you apologize?” He showed his teeth. “Say no.”

Perhaps it was Crispin’s confident posture, or his refined speech that gave the man pause. Whatever the reason, the broad man dropped his dagger to his thigh and inclined his head. “I beg your pardon. I did not see you. I meant no harm.”

Crispin took a disappointed breath. With a huff, he saluted with his blade and sheathed it. Without further words, he turned on his heel and proceeded up the avenue. He peered into the shops and stalls he passed, inordinately interested in the commonplace: a butcher drew his knife down the skinned corpse of a pig hanging upside down from a hook; a poulterer held chickens by their feet and waved their struggling bodies to potential customers, wings spread like an angel’s; a young apprentice walked carefully to the back of a shop with a tub of blood; a fishmonger briskly scaled a gudgeon, scales flinging into the air like faery dust.

Crispin took it all in, the coppery scent of blood, the sounds of chickens cackling, the slippery rush and splash of a fish in a bucket. This was no fine street of grand houses. These were the shops of laborers, tradesmen. Their many shops along the Shambles were as tired and as worn as their occupants. Narrow structures, shouldering one another in tight proximity. Their stone foundations were speckled with mud; their daub the color of parchment and their timbers a dusky gray from weathering. An autumn sky sputtered beams of sunshine through its cloud cover, recoloring the shop fronts with alternating stripes of sunlight and shadow.

“Master!”

Crispin heard the voice from far off but there were many men called “Master” by their apprentices along any avenue in London. Slapping steps approached from behind and the voice called again, this time more recognizable.

He turned. Jack Tucker approached at a run, his face long with concern. He pulled up short in front of Crispin and panted, hands on knees. “Master Crispin, didn’t you hear me?”

Crispin shook his head. “No. I’m afraid I did not.” He smiled, thinking of Eleanor’s words. Perhaps Jack’s stealing could be curbed with more concern. God knows Jack’s own parents were long dead. “Jack.” He lunged and gathered the boy into his arms in a bear hug.

Jack squirmed like the devil was after him and wriggled out of Crispin’s grasp. “God blind me!” He lurched away and positioned as if to run. “Are you drunk?”

Crispin opened his arms to encompass London. “Why does everyone think I’m drunk? I’m just merry.”

Jack cringed and studied Crispin. “Merry? You’re never merry. What vexes you? Are you ill?” He reached up to touch Crispin’s forehead and noticed the wounds. “How’d you get those? Now I see. Someone coshed you on the head. Well, never fear, Master. I’ll get you home right enough.” He took Crispin’s arm but Crispin shook him off.

“What nonsense. I am perfectly well. I’m just on my way to the sheriff. Must tell him about a dead body.”

“ ’Strooth! You seem awful cheery about it.”

“Well, it isn’t an ordinary dead body.”

“What’s so extraordinary about it that it lightens your mood so? One of your enemies?”

“No.” Crispin studied Jack’s frowning features and wondered at the lad’s sudden concern. He stared at Jack’s blue coat, its crisp colors seeming to fade before his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. No. Jack’s coat looked as it always had. His eyes turned to the street, following the rhythmic strides of two Franciscan friars in gray gowns with black hoods, walking side by side. Men stopped and bowed to the clerics before moving on. It was an ordinary scene, something he saw every day. He raised his chin and sniffed the air. Before, the street had smelled like the preparations in a kitchen, warm, inviting, with meat ready for the spit. But now, it smelled more like a charnel house.

The lighthearted feelings glowing in his chest chilled. He found himself wondering why he had challenged a man in the street for no reason but for the desire to do so, and nearly gotten into a knife fight for it.

He looked back toward his own lodgings though he could no longer see them beyond the curve of the road and the uneven magpie colors of shop fronts and houses. He touched the wounds on his forehead, but they no longer bled. His body suddenly felt heavy. He used to feel that way after a battle once his high blood was spent.

Taking a deep breath he could barely find the strength to face Jack. The boy stared at him with mouth gaping. “Why do you look at me like that?” Crispin asked.

Jack clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. His thick ginger hair jostled. “I ain’t looking at you with aught. If you must needs go to the sheriff then let us go and get it done with. You know how I dislike Newgate.”

Crispin nodded, rolled his shoulders, and shook off the odd feeling. He looked back one last time, and gestured for Jack to follow.

He said nothing as he continued up the lane to where it became Newgate Market. These were the same shops and houses, the same gray faces that greeted him every day. Why had it seemed so different only moments ago?

He looked ahead. Newgate prison lay before him at the end of the row; a gate in the great wall that surrounded most of London. Jack shivered beside him as Crispin nodded to the guard and passed under Newgate’s arch with its toothy portcullis.

At Crispin’s urging, Jack followed him up the stairs to Sheriff Simon Wynchecombe’s tower chamber. Newgate conjured unpleasant memories for both of them, but Crispin had learned over the years to ignore his discomfort.

The sheriff’s clerk waved the pair by without looking up, familiar with Crispin’s comings and goings. They entered the sheriff’s shadowy chamber, and Crispin moved directly in front of the hot fire before Wynchecombe could look up from his table and stop him.

Too late. The sheriff lifted his eyes from his documents and scowled upon resting his gaze on Crispin. “Ha!” he snorted. “I thought I’d see you here ere long. You must have something to do with this dead French courier.”

Crispin sighed. Good news traveled fast, and bad news even faster.