The late afternoon sun gave bleak light behind a shade of clouds, laying a pale yellow sheen over the bold faces of the shopfronts.
The hammering continued, and now the narrow stands were forming along the avenue. They’d block some of the shops and houses, and the shop owners looked none too keen on that, but everyone loved a joust, especially if it meant that a man was fighting for his very life.
Crispin scowled and turned away from the beams and carpenters.
Among the background noise of shopkeepers, lowing beasts, and hammering, the susurration of the river passing beneath and clashing against the piers hummed in his ears. He supposed it could have a lulling effect when all were quiet in their beds, but it could also drive a man mad with the constant hiss at his senses.
He reached the armorer’s and slowed to a stroll. Two men in the livery of the city of London were boarding up the door. The sheriffs’ men were keeping all secure, he supposed. He stood behind them as one hammered—badly—and placed one board atop another while the other man picked through a handful of nails.
“What is this?” asked Crispin, and got grim satisfaction as the man hit his thumb instead of the nail. He howled while the other laughed, but the other was soon howling, too, when the board fell and landed on his foot. They were both hopping around until they turned twin scowls on Crispin. “I beg your pardon,” he said with a bow to hide his smirk. “By whose order are you securing this shop?”
“By order of the Lord Sheriff,” grumbled the one with the swollen thumb. “And if you don’t want to find yourself in Newgate this night, you’ll move along.”
He watched them for a moment more before he quit them and went next door to the haberdasher, who was yet to be talked to. If there was much ado in the armorer’s, surely they would have heard.
He passed through the archway. A wire-thin man was bent over a bench with a wooden form. Wool batting stuck through the loose seams of dark blue material wound about the form, and the man was carefully stitching a long liripipe tail to what would become a roundel hat.
“I beg your pardon, good master,” said Crispin with a bow.
The man continued on without acknowledgement of Crispin’s presence.
Crispin cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon,” he said a bit louder.
Still, the man worked on.
Either the haberdasher was being insulting or …
Crispin reached out and touched the man’s shoulder. He jumped so abruptly he fell off his stool. Crispin knelt to help him up.
“Why by God’s teeth are you creeping up on a man like that!” he accused.
Crispin brushed the dust off the man’s gown and bowed. “I beg your pardon.”
“Eh?”
“I said, I beg your pardon?”
“What? Speak up. I can’t countenance mumbling.”
“I SAID, I BEG YOUR PARDON.”
“No need to shout, young man.”
Crispin sighed.
It took a great deal more shouting before Crispin discovered from the nearly deaf craftsman that not only had he heard nothing the night of the murder but he did not even know the armorer was dead.
“How did he die?”
“I BELIEVE HE WAS MURDERED.”
“Murdered? By Saint Agatha, bless us all.”
“HAD YOU ANY REASON TO BELIEVE HE TOOK HIS OWN LIFE?”
“Eh? I thought you said he was murdered. I don’t hear well, you know.”
“Yes, I know. BUT THERE WERE SOME WHO THOUGHT AT FIRST HE MIGHT HAVE DONE IT HIMSELF.”
The man shook his head. “No. Not Roger Grey. He was a robust man. A man of ambition. He would never do such a thing. I was under the impression he expected a windfall and had planned to leave London.”
The third time someone had said as much, yet his betrothed said it was not so.
Crispin thanked the man, walked out of the shop, and headed for the tailor only two doors away.
Master Coterel was at his bench, carefully sewing a sleeve for a blue and as yet sleeveless cotehardie hanging from a straw-stuffed mannequin. The coat was still in a
The hammering continued, and now the narrow stands were forming along the avenue. They’d block some of the shops and houses, and the shop owners looked none too keen on that, but everyone loved a joust, especially if it meant that a man was fighting for his very life.
Crispin scowled and turned away from the beams and carpenters.
Among the background noise of shopkeepers, lowing beasts, and hammering, the susurration of the river passing beneath and clashing against the piers hummed in his ears. He supposed it could have a lulling effect when all were quiet in their beds, but it could also drive a man mad with the constant hiss at his senses.
He reached the armorer’s and slowed to a stroll. Two men in the livery of the city of London were boarding up the door. The sheriffs’ men were keeping all secure, he supposed. He stood behind them as one hammered—badly—and placed one board atop another while the other man picked through a handful of nails.
“What is this?” asked Crispin, and got grim satisfaction as the man hit his thumb instead of the nail. He howled while the other laughed, but the other was soon howling, too, when the board fell and landed on his foot. They were both hopping around until they turned twin scowls on Crispin. “I beg your pardon,” he said with a bow to hide his smirk. “By whose order are you securing this shop?”
“By order of the Lord Sheriff,” grumbled the one with the swollen thumb. “And if you don’t want to find yourself in Newgate this night, you’ll move along.”
He watched them for a moment more before he quit them and went next door to the haberdasher, who was yet to be talked to. If there was much ado in the armorer’s, surely they would have heard.
He passed through the archway. A wire-thin man was bent over a bench with a wooden form. Wool batting stuck through the loose seams of dark blue material wound about the form, and the man was carefully stitching a long liripipe tail to what would become a roundel hat.
“I beg your pardon, good master,” said Crispin with a bow.
The man continued on without acknowledgement of Crispin’s presence.
Crispin cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon,” he said a bit louder.
Still, the man worked on.
Either the haberdasher was being insulting or …
Crispin reached out and touched the man’s shoulder. He jumped so abruptly he fell off his stool. Crispin knelt to help him up.
“Why by God’s teeth are you creeping up on a man like that!” he accused.
Crispin brushed the dust off the man’s gown and bowed. “I beg your pardon.”
“Eh?”
“I said, I beg your pardon?”
“What? Speak up. I can’t countenance mumbling.”
“I SAID, I BEG YOUR PARDON.”
“No need to shout, young man.”
Crispin sighed.
It took a great deal more shouting before Crispin discovered from the nearly deaf craftsman that not only had he heard nothing the night of the murder but he did not even know the armorer was dead.
“How did he die?”
“I BELIEVE HE WAS MURDERED.”
“Murdered? By Saint Agatha, bless us all.”
“HAD YOU ANY REASON TO BELIEVE HE TOOK HIS OWN LIFE?”
“Eh? I thought you said he was murdered. I don’t hear well, you know.”
“Yes, I know. BUT THERE WERE SOME WHO THOUGHT AT FIRST HE MIGHT HAVE DONE IT HIMSELF.”
The man shook his head. “No. Not Roger Grey. He was a robust man. A man of ambition. He would never do such a thing. I was under the impression he expected a windfall and had planned to leave London.”
The third time someone had said as much, yet his betrothed said it was not so.
Crispin thanked the man, walked out of the shop, and headed for the tailor only two doors away.
Master Coterel was at his bench, carefully sewing a sleeve for a blue and as yet sleeveless cotehardie hanging from a straw-stuffed mannequin. The coat was still in a
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