Sword of Shadows, page 23
‘He schemed?’
‘He schemed, he gambled, he coerced. He wasn’t above extortion, I’m certain of that.’
‘Then why did you …’ But he couldn’t complete the thought. She rescued him.
‘He had knowledge I needed. He told me about Carantok’s holes.’
It was Teague’s turn to swing round. ‘The scoundrel! And he spied on me to do it.’
‘My brooch. He said he got it from one of your holes.’
‘He never. I didn’t see any such thing in my diggings. He must have stolen it elsewhere.’
‘I concede it,’ said Crispin. ‘Bennet was a terrible man. But it doesn’t explain Dunning.’
‘It seems that it should have been the other way round,’ said Jack. ‘That maybe Dunning caught Bennet in the act and extorted him to keep mum. But then he would have been killed first, not second.’
Crispin sat back thoughtfully. ‘I see what you mean. Bennet would have murdered him to keep him silent.’
Teague pulled on the reins and brought the cart to a halt. ‘This is as far as we go.’ He jumped off the side and moved to the back in time to help Kat off. She leapt nimbly to the ground, only touching Teague’s fingers to do so. The man looked away from her deliberately, and instead took up a pickax. ‘Just in case,’ he said.
By now the sky was decidedly darker, and by the moonlight, Crispin could see that the tide had receded enough along the shore. The cave would still be damp but not underwater.
Jack carefully lit the other torch and handed one to Crispin. With both torches in hand, he and Jack led the others toward the dark hole in the chalky cliff face.
The roar of the sea seemed to grow louder in the cave, like a hand cupped to an ear. It caught the noise and echoed it back. Everywhere was the smell of the salty ocean and damp. When he brought the torch in under the arch of stone, it reflected with flickering light on the roof and the slick walls.
‘It was here, sir,’ said Jack, splashing forward. ‘In this pool.’ Jack’s torch lit the dark water. Its surface glittered with the fire’s reflection.
‘I’ll hold that,’ said Kat, taking the torch from him.
Crispin’s blood was tingling through his body. There was no feeling akin to this except for that of awaiting a joust to begin. His sight seemed sharper, his ears keener.
Jack splashed forward and knelt, reaching down beneath a jutting shelf of rock. He struggled and Crispin shoved his torch at Teague, who barely had time to drop his pickax and grab it before Crispin plunged into the pool to help Jack.
His fingers found the wet wood, smoothed from the churning tide and time. Its surface felt uneven, like a timber floating on the sea for years, and he felt slightly disappointed that it might turn out to be nothing … when it moved. He and Jack exchanged a fleeting glance, when they set to again. Digging in with both hands, they pulled in tandem. It scraped along the rough surface and finally slid out. It was indeed a coffer of some size, and heavy. The uneven surface he had mistaken for driftwood were instead carvings that had lost their definition from their waterlogged state.
They carried it out of the cave and to the pebbled beach, setting it down. A long coffer, long enough for a sword, Crispin noted. With a slight arch to the top of it and a mechanism that was at first puzzling.
‘I don’t see a lock, sir,’ said Jack, peering at all the edges, but edges there were and even a seam running along the sides. It opened, but how?
Teague was fairly vibrating with excitement. ‘I think we should take it back to the castle. It is cold here and we need more light.’
They all agreed, and he and Jack carried it back along the beach and up the steep trail to the awaiting cart.
Kat’s smile and the light in her eyes under the torch-glow gave him pause. She was as excited as the rest of them. And though she might not believe in Excalibur, she was as enthralled by the hunt as he was.
She raised her eyes to his and they shared an electric moment.
But it was gone again as they scrambled onto the cart and hurried back up the path to the dark castle above.
The porter had been there to open the gate for them, and Crispin called to him, telling him he could close the portcullis for the night. Shipley stared down at Crispin with a puzzled expression and, after a moment, disappeared to comply.
They heard the sound of the windlass creaking and whining and the solid thud of the portcullis’s teeth hitting the stone behind them. Navigating over the land-bridge in the dark was more harrowing than Crispin cared to repeat, but he and Jack leaned their torches on either side of the cart to illuminate the narrow path, and an oblivious Carantok Teague managed without a fuss.
They brought the coffer to Teague’s chamber, covered with one of his canvas cloths to hide it. They needn’t have worried, since they saw neither Sir Regis nor the other two men-at-arms.
They lit the fires, lit as many candles and oil lamps as they could, while Teague examined the coffer and its mysterious and invisible locking mechanism.
‘Have you seen the like before, Master Teague?’ Jack bent over, hands on knees, to study it.
‘Something like it before in the Holy Land. But not quite as puzzling as this.’
‘I can break into it,’ said Jack and Kat at the same time. They exchanged glances.
Crispin took Teague by the shoulder and gently guided him back. ‘I’d leave it to these two professionals.’
‘I thought you weren’t thieving anymore, Jack,’ said Kat in a lilting voice.
‘I don’t. But … there are occasions when me master and me must—’
‘Never mind,’ she said, squatting in front of it.
Jack reached over the coffer. ‘I’ve seen tricks where you have to release secreted catches on the side …’
Jack’s arms were long enough to be able to reach both sides at once. He fiddled at the edges but eventually pushed away with an exasperated huff.
‘Or,’ said Kat, running her fingers along the front, ‘there are sometimes hidden panels that you must compress to reveal the mechanism.’ Her slender fingers moved smoothly along the wood.
‘Damn,’ she whispered, after working on it for some time with no result.
‘I once opened a small jewelry casket by rocking it from side to side,’ said Jack. ‘Here, help me,’ he said to her, the first civil thing Crispin had heard him say to her. They each took a side of it and, on Jack’s instructions, carefully lifted one side and then the other. ‘There was a weight in it, you see, a ball. And by rocking it just so …’ But that proved as useless as the rest.
Kat frowned. ‘Stupid, sarding box!’ She slammed her fist on the top of it and they all heard a spring and a click.
The seam of the coffer widened and the lid suddenly stood ajar.
‘Or that,’ she said in whispered awe.
By rights, Carantok Teague should have opened it, but Crispin didn’t think when he instinctively moved forward, grasped the lid, and pulled it open.
An embroidered silken cloth lay on top, each colorful thread bright as if sewn only yesterday. There were knights and horses and a great battle. And in the distance, a bearded man in a long gown and a staff observing it all.
Gently grasping the cloth and pulling it away, Crispin glimpsed first the wire-wrapped grip, a shining silver crossguard molded into an elegant arc, and a pommel with a carved dragon in a circle, much like the piece found in the chapel.
He yanked the cloth aside, letting it drop to the floor.
A perfect blade glimmered in the firelight, resting in a nest of velvet. The blade was polished, without a nick or scratch. It had to be his imagination that it almost seemed to glow.
He reached out to touch it, to grasp the handle and curled his fingers around it. When he lifted it from its coffer and raised it upward, he felt its perfect balance, its grace of shape and line, its weight that felt so right in his hand. He could slay a dragon with it. He could slay a hundred men and never tire.
‘It’s magnificent,’ he whispered.
He swung it back and forth. He’d seldom seen so perfect a weapon. It felt right in his hand. When he swung it a few more times, he knew how graceful the blade was, how cunning it could be. In his mind rushed the many encounters he could have had with it, how the outcomes of those long-ago days could have been different with this blade under his control. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but he could imagine and then saw Arthur pull it from the stone. The king bore it up and showed it to the crowd who hailed him. The scene shifted and Crispin saw Arthur in battle with it, mowing down his enemies. And then the scene shifted again, and Crispin himself was in a great hall, shining with candles everywhere, and he was kneeling, and felt the flat of the blade gently tap his shoulder as Arthur himself knighted him.
‘God blind me,’ breathed Jack. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘If it isn’t,’ said Teague, ‘then I can’t imagine what it is.’
Crispin’s eyes snapped open. The images in his mind fell away, like a dream fading … but so much not like a dream at all. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, and he could barely draw breath. When he felt more himself again, he turned toward Teague and reluctantly presented it to his employer. ‘Your prize, Master Teague.’ But even as it slipped through his fingers, a sharp pang stabbed at his heart. And then a hollowness that he hadn’t felt since losing his knighthood squeezed his vitals. By all the saints, it’s only a sword, he told himself. But he couldn’t help but feel … it was more than that. The visions in his mind were surely more than reality.
Teague generously allowed both Jack and Kat to touch it, but Jack kept looking at Crispin, as if he expected him to burst into tears. Or rage against someone. He turned from Jack, because there was something beginning to bloom inside of him. Loss. Pain. Sorrow.
He tried to smile at his apprentice, but it came out a weak grimace instead.
Teague stroked it, studied the pommel, ran his hand along the length of the still-sharpened blade. ‘I think it best we return it to its coffer,’ he said softly after a time. He set it inside its velvet cushion, laid the discarded cloth over it and closed the lid. He got Jack to help him slide it under his bed. And then they all stood in front of the bed, looking at it.
Had no one else experienced what Crispin felt? They had marveled at the blade, but they hadn’t seen.
Kat moved first, and she, too, was looking at Crispin with some concern. ‘I say we’ve had a long day and must retreat to our beds,’ she said.
Annoyed by her expression, he agreed with a grunt and turned away, stomping toward his chamber. Jack would share his chamber, and Kat would take the other separate chamber. He stared at the bed, sitting in its corner. Felt like kicking it, throwing the bolster over itself, hurling the sheets to the floor.
Why am I so angry? Not angry, exactly. Frustrated, perhaps. But why even that? What had he expected? He had held the sword of swords, and it had been a marvelous thing. Miraculous, even. But it wasn’t his, anymore than it was Teague’s. Maybe that was it. That it didn’t belong to Teague either. Who, then, should have the sword? Not him. He wasn’t worthy. He wouldn’t even have been allowed at the Round Table, what with his committing treason and all.
And there it was again. His past, slapping him in the face. He had meant it to be honorable. It was honorable, wanting his mentor to be king over that whelp of a boy, over Richard … who had not wanted to execute his own mentor – Crispin – but was being forced to by his many handlers. The fact that Richard had admitted to him that it had been a relief when Lancaster stepped forward to plead for Crispin’s life …
He ran his hand over his face. ‘Can you not simply rejoice in seeing such an object?’ he muttered to himself.
A cleared throat in the doorway made him jerk back and whirl around. Jack. And Kat.
‘What is it?’
Jack rubbed his beard and then dropped his hand away. ‘It seems foolish to house Mistress Pyke in the next room … when she’d end up here anyway.’
‘Tucker!’
‘I’m not wrong.’ Standing behind Kat, he grasped her by her shoulders and gently propelled her forward into the room. ‘You know I’m right.’ He ducked quickly away before Crispin could say more.
She wore an apologetic smile. ‘He is right, you know.’
Crispin surrendered with a sigh and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Is that your will? To be in here with me?’
She moved cautiously into the room and stood before him, hands demurely placed in front of her. ‘It is.’ She gazed at him for a moment before crouching and taking his hands. ‘You know it is. Even as peevish as you are.’
He lifted her hand almost unconsciously and kissed it. Still holding it, he gently pulled, and she stumbled forward. He caught her and drew her into his lap. ‘Peevish, eh?’
‘Grumpy, even.’
‘Mmm,’ he murmured, looking her over. He couldn’t help but lean in to kiss her.
She offered her lips and then her smooth neck, and he drew her closer to nuzzle it, to nose his way down to the flesh at her chemise’s neckline. His hands found the softness of her breasts, the curve of a hip. But his mouth wanted more kisses and found her lips again.
She smiled, making a sound like a purr, and gathered him close. He soon forgot about the sword.
Something woke him. A sound. A scrape along stone. But suddenly he was wide awake. He looked down beside him, but Kat was not there. He stumbled from the bed and tripped over something on the floor.
Grabbing his chemise from where it lay at the foot of the bed, he pulled it on. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that he had tripped on one of her shoes. He did not find the other. ‘Kat?’ he husked in the dark.
A yell. Crispin fell on his belt and grabbed the dagger, pulling it from its scabbard. Scrambling into the corridor, he suddenly ran into Carantok Teague in his nightgown. ‘It’s gone! God have mercy, it’s gone!’
Jack stumbled into the corridor half-dressed, hair messy, face still slack from being awakened so suddenly. ‘What’s amiss?’
‘The sword!’ cried Teague. ‘It’s gone!’
Jack swiveled around, seeing just the three of them. ‘Where’s Kat Pyke?’
Crispin gritted his teeth. ‘She’s gone too.’
TWENTY-FIVE
He couldn’t have been that stupid. He simply could not have been.
Barefoot, Crispin paced the floor, wiping his hand down his beard-stubbled face. He should have known she would steal it. Would have wagered money on it, in fact.
‘Where do you suppose she is?’ asked Jack, leaning against the wall. He glanced at Teague through the doorway of Crispin’s room, sitting on Crispin’s bed, his head in his hands.
‘Far from here,’ he growled. It was all his fault. Jack had warned him, but he hadn’t listened, hadn’t wanted to.
Jack took several steps into his chamber and picked up the lone shoe. ‘She left this.’
‘Foolish of her,’ he said from the corridor, where he continued to pace. ‘It’s cold and damp out.’
‘Aye.’ Jack took it with him and left the chamber, re-entering his own. Crispin could hear him rumbling around, opening coffers. He stuck his head out the door. ‘The rest of her things are still here.’
‘What would she need with them? She had something of great value to sell. And she was in a hurry.’
‘Aye,’ he muttered uncertainly. Scratching his head, he stared at the shoe. ‘But, as you say, it’s cold and wet out. Could a person not slow down enough to retrieve one shoe?’
Crispin looked at the dagger still in his hand, walked to where he had discarded his belt in his chamber, and shoved it in its scabbard. ‘What are you saying?’
Jack stood a moment in the doorway, clutching the shoe, staring at nothing, or so Crispin thought. But when Jack cocked his head to glare at the floor, the man froze for only a heartbeat before Jack ran to the corridor to retrieve the oil lamp in its niche.
‘Sir,’ he said, crouching. He held the little clay lamp near the floor, moving it about, leaving a dim halo of light here and there.
Teague still sat on the bed, cradling his head, moaning softly.
Crispin stopped pacing the chamber and turned. Jack seemed engrossed with examining something on the floor. With a sigh, Crispin crouched alongside him.
Dots of mud. Muddy … footsteps?
He grabbed the shoe from Jack’s hand. No mud.
He bolted upright and followed the mud out of the chamber where the steps left a faint trail, and then down the stairwell.
‘Those aren’t her footsteps, sir,’ said Jack, stating the obvious.
Crispin stared into the gloom of the floor below. ‘She was abducted?’
‘She lost her shoe … or left it on purpose.’
‘How did I not hear it?’
‘Sometimes you sleep deeply, sir, when … when you are content.’
‘God’s blood!’
But now Teague was awakened from his mourning and staggered to the doorway. ‘She took the sword!’
‘I don’t think so, Master Teague,’ said Crispin over his shoulder. He grabbed another oil lamp from further down the corridor and ventured into Teague’s chamber. He knelt at the bed and moved the lamp about. No muddy prints. This was someone else. They could be working in tandem … but he didn’t sense it in his gut.
‘It wasn’t her. She was abducted. And the sword taken at the same time.’
‘This is impossible!’ cried Teague.
‘Improbable … but not impossible. Jack, get dressed.’
‘Aye, sir!’ He hurried to his own coffer in Crispin’s chamber and dug out his clothes.
Crispin dressed quickly, and was surprised to find Teague dressed as well and waiting outside his chamber.
Footsteps on the stairwell. Crispin shoved Teague behind him and drew his sword. But it was only the sleepy face of Sir Regis, bearing a candle on a tin holder. ‘What goes on here?’
‘My … my servant has been abducted.’
Regis glanced at Jack and then seemed to remember. ‘The girl? What, by the mass, is going on? Who stole her?’
