The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘Crispin, maybe we could … meet.’

  He paused. He couldn’t remember why they hesitated before. Maybe they could. Maybe …

  But then he watched her face fade from hopeful to resigned. ‘No,’ she said with a sigh. ‘We couldn’t. Clarence, for all his faults, has been a good man. He’s been good to me when he didn’t have to be. I had married his brother, after all … or so we had all thought. Poor Nicholas, as I still think of him. For we shall never know that imposter’s true name, will we? As far as the rest of the guild knew, as far as all London knows, I married my brother-in-law.’ She wrung her hands, stared at Crispin’s boots. ‘He was dishonored enough when his own brother Lionel killed Nicholas. I cannot dishonor him further.’

  ‘And neither can I. Though … my honor seems but a weak thing now as I stand before you. I almost forgot it.’

  She gave a rueful smile. ‘You, forget your honor? And yet it was that very honor that kept us apart and put me into Clarence’s arms.’

  What could he say to that? It was the truth. His stubborn honor that he wore like armor. What had he been protecting himself from? Marrying a kitchen wench? That was what he had told himself all those years ago, but what had it got him? He wasn’t a lord, never would be. He could have had her …

  He wiped it all away with a brush of his hand across his brow. ‘I … I will not bid my farewells once I’ve talked to … to your son. It’s better that way.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. You are too dangerous to me, Master Guest.’

  ‘And you to me.’ He bowed and, without looking at her again, dashed out the parlor door. He took the stairs two at a time, the better to get it over with.

  When he neared Christopher’s door, he heard voices. The young, high voice of the child, and an older boy’s voice, just coming into its rich tones. A servant? But it sounded like an argument. Crispin approached and rapped on the door. The voices stopped and there was a scramble. Something was knocked to the ground and Crispin didn’t hesitate. He pushed open the door.

  Christopher turned his wide-eyed face toward him. And Martin Chigwell, tangled in the curtains, was halfway out the window.

  ELEVEN

  Crispin was in the room in an instant, grabbing Martin and hauling him back, tearing the curtains from their rings as he did so.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘He came to see me!’ cried Christopher. ‘Let him alone!’

  ‘I’m talking to Chigwell, if you don’t mind. What have you to say for yourself, Chigwell?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m saying nothing.’

  ‘I can make you talk.’ He lifted him higher and shook him.

  Suddenly, little fists were pounding at his back.

  ‘Leave him alone! Put him down. You’re cruel, just like Master Horne. I don’t like you very much, Master Guest.’

  The words pierced his chest like a dagger thrust. He released Martin and swiveled toward Christopher. ‘Can’t you see that I’m trying to save you?’

  ‘I don’t want you to save me. I want you to leave him alone.’

  The boy had a stubborn curl to his lip. It was most familiar. He turned away from the boy and fastened his gaze on Martin. ‘Well?’

  Martin blinked rapidly and glanced at Christopher. ‘He’s my friend. And they wouldn’t let me see him. So I climbed through the window.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t let you see him? Madam Walcote?’

  ‘No. Madam Horne. Doesn’t want me here anymore. But I don’t know that she … well. She might not be my mistress anymore either.’

  ‘Has she let you go?’

  He shrugged petulantly.

  Christopher grabbed his arm and clung to him. ‘You can work here, Martin. I’ll see to it. My father will have you.’

  ‘He’s already got an apprentice. Many of them.’

  ‘He’ll make room for you. I’ll tell him to.’

  ‘You’re a good friend, Chris.’

  Christopher raised his face to Crispin and frowned. ‘I want you to go.’

  But Crispin stood his ground. ‘Now both of you, shut your mouths and listen to me. This isn’t a game. The sheriffs mean to hang you and I am trying to stop it. You both must talk to me.’

  Two solemn faces stared back at him. They were silent and still.

  ‘Now. I heard you two arguing just now before I came in. What were you arguing about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ cut in Christopher.

  ‘For the love of God, boy, close your mouth. I want Chigwell to answer me.’

  But Martin kept looking at Christopher and the boy pleaded with his eyes. Martin hung his head. ‘We argued over … a game. A game we play.’

  ‘It was a game,’ said Christopher hastily.

  Crispin folded his arms over his chest. ‘Is that so?’ Christopher stared at him defiantly, while Martin looked at the floor. ‘Very well. We’ll leave that for now. Tell me about that day. You first, Martin. And before you say anything, the maids Nesta and Clarice saw you both there, one after the other, talking to Master Horne. And they saw you, Christopher, in the solar … where the relic was kept.’

  ‘It was a red cow,’ said Christopher. ‘I always liked that cow. I didn’t know why they kept it there or thought so much of it.’

  ‘Because a saint’s bone was inside it. And it’s very valuable.’

  Christopher wiped his nose. ‘That’s what Nesta always told me. I mustn’t touch it. It’s valuable.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Once. But I didn’t mean any harm. My mother would have given me a hiding had she known. But Nesta said she wouldn’t tell.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Ages ago. When I was a child.’

  Crispin raised a brow. Why was everything the boy said reminding him of his own early years with Lancaster? A memory suddenly came rushing forth, from a time when he had not been much older than Christopher was now. He had first come to live with the duke when Crispin was newly orphaned. Crispin had touched something in the parlor he had been told not to touch and had broken it. A glass beaker made in Italy. At first, he had lied about it, but when a servant was being blamed he had spoken up and confessed it. The duke, a mere seventeen years old at the time, had called him into the parlor.

  ‘I am told you have something to say to me, young Baron Guest,’ he had said in his sternest voice. The duke seemed tall in those days, and had begun styling himself with a dark, trimmed beard. He wasn’t yet a duke. That was to come four years later, but he was still a mighty lord and third in line to the throne, and Crispin had been made aware of that fact time and again by stewards and governors.

  Crispin remembered how he had felt. He had been terrified that his Lord of Gaunt would beat him; that he’d be thrown into a cell in the darkest hold in the house – as other servants had been threatened.

  But, more than any of that, he had thought he might be sent away, and that was most frightening of all.

  Yet even as afraid as he was, he had stood as tall as he could and faced the man. ‘I do, my lord,’ he had said, his voice high and sweet. ‘For I have broken the beaker. I was told not to touch it and I did. I was afraid to say. Afraid you would send me away. But I could not let Roger be punished for something I did.’

  Gaunt had gazed down at him for only a moment before he crouched low to look Crispin in the eye. And it was only then that Crispin realized he had been crying, for Gaunt reached out and wiped his tears with his thumb. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that was very brave of you. Even afraid as you were for being sent away. You spoke up and saved an innocent man. You mustn’t ever be afraid to tell the truth, Crispin. You shan’t be punished for that.’

  His lip trembled but he did not look away from those intense eyes. ‘Will you send me away?’

  ‘You foolish boy.’ He enclosed Crispin in his arms then and rose, hoisting him to his chest. ‘I’ll not send you away. You are my squire. What would I do without you? And now I know you are a man who will always be loyal and tell me the truth, even
if it frightens you.’

  ‘I will, sir! Always! I promise!’

  Gaunt laughed then, and Crispin hugged him around the neck, and he knew that it was going to be all right.

  The duke had always protected him … especially years later in his greatest hour of need.

  Would that he could return the favor to this boy, his boy, and take him up and reassure him. But he couldn’t. He didn’t yet know what the truth was, or if he truly could shield this boy from harm.

  Instead, he slowly crouched to look him in the eye. ‘Christopher,’ he said, his image of a young Lancaster fading in his mind. ‘No matter how it frightens you, no matter who you think you are shielding, you must tell me the truth. For Jesus himself would always wish that you tell the truth.’

  ‘I know,’ he said softly. He looked at his feet. ‘But … I have nothing to say.’

  Crispin looked up to Chigwell, standing over Christopher’s shoulder. ‘You understand the seriousness of this, Master Chigwell. Tell me. What happened on that day?’

  ‘I … I …’ He breathed hard. ‘I told you before. My master could be disagreeable. He … says things. About … about women. He said something unkind about Madam Walcote and I told him that I didn’t think it right he say it. He struck me.’ He placed his hand to his smooth cheek in remembrance. His cheek was unmarked now. ‘I know it is not the place of an apprentice to speak against his master, but I told him that Christopher was here and that I didn’t think he should hear such talk, but he didn’t care.’

  ‘Where was Christopher at the time?’

  ‘He was in the solar.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes. But he didn’t take the relic. Why would he? He had no interest in it.’

  ‘He said he liked the red cow.’

  ‘But he didn’t need it. If he had asked, Madam Walcote would have got him one just like it.’

  Crispin knew that to be true. ‘Could he have heard you arguing?’

  ‘I’m standing right here,’ said Christopher with an indignant stomp of his foot.

  ‘Then tell me. Did you hear Master Horne and Master Chigwell?’

  ‘Yes. He was a stupid man who deserved to be whipped for the things he said. If I were older, I would have.’

  ‘And rightly so. Though the better course would be to challenge him to a duel.’

  ‘And I would have!’ he said, hand on his empty sheath. ‘But I haven’t learned enough about arms yet. But I will.’

  ‘And did you raise your voice to him?’

  ‘I did. And I’m not sorry.’

  ‘Did you take your knife to him?’

  He opened his mouth to answer but quickly closed it. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘He certainly is. But a man must never be stabbed in the back when you are defending your honor or that of a loved one.’

  ‘I didn’t! I’d never. No knight ever would.’

  Crispin rose and stared hard at the boy. He didn’t know. Christopher had no idea that Horne was stabbed in the back. Crispin was immeasurably cheered by that.

  But then he glanced at Martin. His face was as unreadable as before.

  ‘Then what happened, Christopher? You argued. Was Martin there?’

  ‘No, he’d left after Master Horne slapped him. And I yelled at Horne. And then I ran out.’

  ‘You did? Then where did you go?’

  ‘I went to look for Martin but I couldn’t find him. So I went back upstairs, because I had forgotten my book – I had a book I was showing Martin – and Master Horne was holding his side. There was a knife on the floor and I picked it up. It was mine. It must have fallen out of my sheath when Master Horne shook me earlier—’

  ‘He laid his hands on you?’

  ‘Told me I was a stupid boy and to keep my mouth closed and he would say what he liked about my mother. I kicked him in the shin.’

  Good. Crispin was more and more convinced that Horne was a man who deserved to be murdered … but that was not a Christian thought. I’ll think my Christian thoughts later, he mused. ‘What happened when you found the bloody knife? What did you think happened?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was blood at first. I thought it might be berries or some such. And why was he using my knife? But he was clutching his side and breathing funny. He didn’t notice I was there. And then he fell over.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I stood there. I didn’t do anything. And then Madam Horne just appeared there and screamed. She said, “You killed him!” and then I knew what happened.’

  ‘So you didn’t kill him like you told everyone?’

  He stopped. His eyes rounded with alarm and he threw his hand over his mouth. Those wide eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘I shouldn’t have said,’ he sobbed. He turned to Martin, and the apprentice suddenly hugged him. Chigwell had a faraway look in his eye.

  ‘You must never be afraid to tell the truth, Christopher. No matter the outcome.’

  ‘You can’t tell anyone,’ he cried, snuffling.

  There is no greater love than this, thought Crispin, the quotation the boy had used earlier. He certainly knew his scriptures and had taken them to heart. But it was misguided. He was protecting someone.

  He was protecting Martin Chigwell.

  TWELVE

  Crispin wanted to get the apprentice alone to talk with him and he grabbed his arm.

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ cried Christopher.

  ‘Not far. But I must speak with him. And smuggle him out of here.’

  ‘Oh. Then you’re still my friend?’

  Crispin released Martin long enough to take a knee before the child and touched his arm. ‘I will always be a loyal friend to you, Christopher. Never doubt it.’

  ‘You were a knight,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘But you aren’t one now. Why?’

  He swallowed. ‘Because my loyalty was to my lord, the Duke of Lancaster. And when his brother died and then his father, I thought that he should have been king instead of his nephew Richard, who was only a few years older than you are now.’

  Wide-eyed, Christopher’s gaze tracked over Crispin’s face. ‘But that’s … treason.’

  ‘Yes. It was. And I should have died. I should have been executed most horribly, as traitors deserve. But the duke stood up for me, saved my life. And now I am not allowed at court or to own my lands anymore.’

  ‘And you can’t be a knight?’ His voice sounded forlorn, and Crispin warmed at the innocent sympathy there.

  ‘No. But I still live as a knight, by my honor, and doing what I can to protect the innocent and punish the guilty. This I have sworn.’

  ‘But you still have a sword.’

  Crispin drew it and showed the Latin engraving on the blade. ‘You see this? I did a service for the Duke of Lancaster’s son, Henry Bolingbroke, and he gave me this sword. I use it only when necessary.’ The light reflected on the blade and shone in the boy’s eyes. Crispin quickly sheathed it again.

  ‘So … you’re going to protect me?’

  Crispin pressed his fist to his heart. ‘I so swear, Master Walcote.’

  His rosy mouth fell open breathlessly. ‘Then you’re my knight … aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Crispin rose. ‘Do you trust me now?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Crispin.’

  He offered the boy a lopsided grin and bowed. He jerked his head toward Chigwell, and the boy followed him to the window. He passed a shelf full of toys. He did not know why it caught his eye, but it suddenly had. Tucked behind a leather ball and a discarded hood … was a red cow.

  Slowly, he walked toward the shelf, reached out, and pulled it forth. Wooden, carved in the shape of a cow, its red paint was peeling off, rubbed down with age. There was a crystal in the middle of its flank, and Crispin could just see a white chip of something within.

  He turned with it toward Christopher.

  The boy’s eyes widened. ‘That’s it!’

  ‘You lied to me.’

 
‘No! I didn’t. I didn’t take it. I don’t know what it’s doing here.’

  Crispin took two strides to grab the boy by his arm. ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘No! I swear, Master Crispin. I swear by my honor!’

  Crispin released his arm and took in the boy’s expression. He was clearly staring at the cow in wonder.

  He whirled on Chigwell. ‘You. What do you know of this?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how it got here. I know Christopher would never have taken it.’

  Crispin glared at each in turn. ‘One of you is lying to me, and I don’t like being lied to.’

  The more he glared at each boy, the more they looked at each other. ‘Bah!’ he said at last, and shoved it into his scrip. He leaned over the sill and looked down. It was high, but there were vines and trees close enough to the wall. ‘You’re a squirrel, boy,’ he said to Martin. ‘Let us go down to the courtyard below and from there we will talk.’

  Martin nodded shakily. He waved his farewell to Christopher, and straddled the sill before slipping down the other side by grabbing onto the vines clinging to the wall. Crispin let him get down a few paces before he followed, glancing once more at the suddenly small figure of his son, standing forlornly in the center of his chamber.

  He turned away quickly, and climbed down, landing on the gravel walkway where Martin Chigwell meekly waited for him. He grabbed the boy’s elbow and ran with him to a secluded corner near the wall.

  ‘Had to get you away from the windows,’ said Crispin in explanation. ‘Now. Tell me about this relic. And I warn you. I do not take kindly to liars.’ Or murderers, but he did not say the last aloud.

  ‘But I didn’t lie, sir. I don’t know how it got into Chris’s room, but I know – I know he didn’t take it.’

  Crispin glared at him for another moment before he turned away and paced. ‘Dammit, boy. You must be lying.’ He turned to look at him again, but his smooth, youthful face was nothing if not innocent. Either they were both extraordinary storytellers or …

  He sighed and stopped, gazing up to the unhelpful heavens. ‘Then only God knows how it got there.’