The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  Crispin looked up to the second-floor window. Hadn’t they both anticipated this moment? But now that the moment was here, they both froze. Jack moved first. ‘I must go fetch Eleanor.’

  He jerked from Crispin’s grasp but Crispin lunged for him and grasped his arm. ‘Don’t be a fool, man. You stay. I’ll go.’

  ‘Oh master! Bless you, sir!’

  He raced back into the house and now it was Crispin’s turn to stand immobile in the street. Her cries rang out over the lane through the open window and soon he heard Jack’s soft reassurances.

  Crispin blinked. Wake up, man! Off he ran toward Gutter Lane. He turned at the corner and nearly skidded into a wall. He threaded his way quickly through the carts and horses, stepped on a chicken before it squawked and flew up at him. He waved it away before he reached the door of the Boar’s Tusk. Casting it open, he stood in the doorway. Panic as he had never known consumed him, and he rushed in, searching for the plump alewife. There! Scolding their servant Ned, who was tending to the fire.

  ‘Eleanor!’ he shouted above the throng of people occupying tables with their beakers and clay bowls in hand. They barely looked up. ‘Eleanor, for God’s sake!’

  She turned her wimpled and kerchiefed head. Her smile was wide on seeing Crispin, but soon turned wary when she saw his expression. He shoved his way through the men at their tables and wobbly stools, not even hearing their threats and oaths.

  She reached out to him. ‘Crispin, whatever is the matter?’

  He was out of breath and light-headed. He leaned over on his thighs and breathed. ‘You must come, Eleanor,’ he panted. ‘Isabel is at her childbed.’

  ‘Oh gracious! I’ll get Gilbert.’

  He grabbed her arm. ‘There’s no time!’

  She had the audacity to laugh in his face. ‘Oh, you silly man. Of course there is time.’

  In disbelief, Crispin watched her unhurried pace as she retreated to the back of the alehouse in search of her husband. What was the woman doing? Didn’t she realize that her niece was about to give birth … in his house?

  Scowling, Crispin waited, tapping his foot. At last, Gilbert appeared. They were both wearing cloaks and Eleanor had a bundle in her hands. ‘Let’s off, Crispin. Oi, Crispin. You look white as a sheet.’

  ‘Will you please make haste?’

  Eleanor chuckled as she followed Crispin at a trot.

  Never had the Shambles seemed so far away, though, intellectually, he knew it was a scant half-mile. He urged her into his lodgings when they arrived, but they stalled in the doorway.

  ‘God’s blood! What are you waiting for?’ When he peered over their shoulders he saw what had stopped them: Abbot William kneeling in prayer before the hearth.

  ‘Jesus mercy!’ cried Eleanor. ‘What’s happened?’

  The abbot looked up. ‘Oh, Crispin. And friends.’ He rose and wiped at his knees. ‘These must be Gilbert and Eleanor Langton, dear Isabel’s uncle and aunt.’

  ‘And this,’ said Crispin curtly, ‘is Abbot William of Westminster Abbey. He’s been our guest for some days.’

  Eleanor looked back at Crispin with widened eyes. ‘You might have warned me.’ She curtseyed to the abbot, even as Gilbert bowed and swept his hood off his head.

  There was a wail from upstairs and everyone stared at the rafters.

  ‘Well,’ said Eleanor, recovering, ‘I must get to it. Gilbert, make yourself useful by collecting linens.’

  He saluted. ‘Aye, m’love.’

  Eleanor hastened up the stairs with her bundles, and everyone heard Jack exclaim, ‘Oh, thank Christ!’

  He was shooed out of the room and was soon hurrying downstairs. ‘I’m to get Anne Lymon, the butcher’s wife,’ he said. Before Crispin could say another word, Jack was gone.

  The men stood in silence, preferring, it seemed, to look at their feet rather than at one another.

  Finally, Gilbert heaved a sigh. ‘Well, I’d best get the linens or the wife will give me what for.’ He ambled toward the ambry and gathered what linens he could find; towels, tablecloths and other small pieces within the cupboard.

  The abbot moved to a chair and sat, running his hand over his head. ‘I was going to return to my abbey today. God knows what they are thinking at my continued absence. But I certainly can’t leave now that there is to be another soul brought into the world.’

  ‘Crispin,’ said Gilbert, his face suddenly in front of him. ‘You look pale. Here. Sit down.’ He pushed Crispin into one of his chairs.

  Crispin sat, perplexed at his inability to do anything, to think. When Gilbert shoved a goblet of wine into his hands, he didn’t hesitate to drink nearly all of it.

  The tavern keeper laid a large hand on his shoulder. ‘I take it you’ve never been nigh a child bed?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. There was plenty of that at court, and at Lancaster’s household.’

  ‘Ah, but not like this. This is Jack Tucker’s babe. Almost like your own. No one’s ever been this close to you before.’

  He drank another dose and pondered. ‘Gilbert, you might be right.’ He dropped his head into his hands. ‘Never have I felt more helpless.’

  ‘That is your love for them,’ said the abbot with a warm smile.

  He said nothing more. The door burst open and Jack stumbled in. He pointed up the stairs. ‘She’s up there.’

  Roger Lymon’s diminutive wife grabbed her skirts, lifted them, and scurried forward. Crispin somehow noted that she had red stockings.

  ‘Day to you, Master Crispin,’ she said as she rushed past. ‘God keep you all,’ she added over her shoulder after sweeping the group of men with her eyes. Up the stairs she went, closing the door after her.

  Jack stood at the foot of the stairs, staring upward. ‘Do you suppose she’ll be all right? My Isabel?’ He turned to Abbot William. ‘My lord, should we pray?’

  ‘I have been doing so, Master Tucker. And you should as well.’

  But Jack was pacing instead, rubbing his hands through his curly hair. ‘I can’t. I can’t think. Master Crispin, what have I done?’

  Gilbert chuckled and slapped Jack on the back. ‘You’ve done as every father before you has, lad. You’ve loved your wife and done as God intended. Now it’s up to Him to watch over her.’

  Jack spun toward Crispin. ‘The relic! St Modwen! Have you still got it, master?’

  ‘I … no. I returned it to her church.’

  ‘You what? But we needed that!’

  ‘Peace, Master Tucker,’ said the abbot. ‘She has already blessed this house. Do you think it matters so much whether her relic is here or not?’

  Jack blinked, fluttering his lids, and slowly commenced pacing again. ‘I … I suppose not.’

  He stopped when wailing came from the upstairs room again.

  Suddenly, the chamber door above slammed open and Eleanor leaned over the railing. ‘This babe wishes to come as fast as he can. Where are those linens, Gilbert? They’ll be a great deal of cleaning needed anon.’

  ‘Coming up!’ He gathered all the linens in his arms and waddled up the stairs. Eleanor relieved it from him, and hurried back into the room, shutting the door.

  Jack locked desperate eyes with Crispin’s.

  Crispin slammed to his feet. ‘This is absurd. Babes are born every day in every corner of the world.’ He pointed sharply up the stairs. ‘That child will be hale, and strong, and …’ He faltered, but instead of sitting again, he stood beside Jack, putting his hands on his shoulders. ‘It will be all right.’

  ‘I just pray that they will both be well.’

  ‘Our hope is in God,’ said Abbot William.

  Sounds of crying, grunting, shouting came from above, and Jack cringed. Crispin hadn’t known when the boy had leaned into him, but he swung his arm around Jack and held him tight.

  He suddenly realized he had missed this part of fatherhood. When Philippa had been in her labor pains, it had been Clarence who had paced, for Crispin hadn’t known about it. He ha
dn’t been there when the boy smiled for the first time, or walked, or said his first words. He had missed it all. Some would say he was there for the most important part – to save his life. And while that was true, he couldn’t help thinking he had missed so much more.

  Well, not this time. He’d be there for Jack’s child. And a foolish notion it was. Why should he be so concerned with a servant’s babe? But he pushed those arguments away. He was long past caring about those differences. He wasn’t a lord, would never be again, but this he could do, and dammit, he was going to do it.

  A baby’s cry.

  The men froze.

  The abbot was the first to move as he rose from his seat. ‘God be praised,’ he murmured.

  Crispin held on to Jack, for the boy’s knees seemed to have given out.

  Eleanor came to the edge of the upper stairs, a grin wide on her face and toweling her hands. ‘Master Tucker, you have a baby boy, and he’s a loud one. And your dear wife is just as fine as can be. Come on up.’

  Jack gasped and burst into a sob. Crispin turned to him and suddenly gathered him into an embrace. ‘A boy, Tucker,’ he said into his ear. ‘That’s a marvel, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m a father,’ he said, dazed.

  Gilbert slapped him on the back, sending him stumbling forward. ‘Did you think you wouldn’t be? Get up there, Tucker.’

  Jack grinned. ‘Aye. I’m a father!’ He bounded up the stairs and Eleanor ushered him into the bedchamber.

  ‘Well!’ said Crispin. He could feel the smile on his face stretching the muscles. ‘We must have wine!’ He grabbed the jug already on the table, and poured wine into what goblets he had. He handed one each to the abbot and to Gilbert.

  ‘You pour just as much as you like,’ said Gilbert, ‘for I will fetch as much as we need from the Tusk.’

  Crispin held up his goblet. ‘Here’s to Jack Tucker and his son!’

  ‘God bless them both,’ said the abbot. They clinked cups and drank.

  It wasn’t long after that Jack leaned over the railing. ‘Master Crispin,’ he said in a hissed whisper, ‘will you come up, sir?’

  ‘Me? But …’

  ‘Please, sir. Isabel wishes to speak with you.’

  Crispin exchanged a worried expression with Gilbert, put down his goblet, and slowly made his way up the stairs. He had never been in that room, save for the one time when he’d first rented the house. There was little need, after all. It was to belong to Jack and, very shortly afterward, it had belonged to Jack and his new bride.

  But this time, at the top of the landing, he made the turn right, instead of left. Jack took his arm and dragged him in. ‘There’s no need for that, Tucker,’ he grumbled.

  Isabel was sitting up in bed, with a tiny, red-faced babe swaddled in her arms. Her face was shiny with sweat, and her hair was plastered to her forehead, but she was beaming. Anne Lymon and Eleanor were bundling wet and bloody linens into a bucket.

  ‘We’ll just leave you for now,’ said Eleanor, elbowing Madam Lymon, then out the door they went, bundles and bucket in hand.

  For some reason, Crispin feared to go closer, even as Jack urged him to. But when Isabel looked up at him and even reached out her hand, he could not stand back any longer. He took her hand and squeezed it, before letting it go. ‘You are well?’ he asked softly.

  She brushed a wet lock from her cheek. ‘Yes. Thank the Almighty. He has delivered me and my son.’

  ‘Master Crispin,’ said Jack, an anxious look to his eye. ‘Isabel and me … well. We want to thank you, sir.’

  ‘Thank me? For what? I had little to do with this.’

  Isabel chuckled and looked down adoringly at the red face of her child. Crispin knew that babies were supposed to be beautiful. But he rather thought the babe looked more like a wizened crab apple than a beloved child. Was it supposed to look like that? It hadn’t troubled Eleanor, so he supposed it was true. Surely the boy would become more handsome as the days drew on.

  ‘We want to thank you, sir, for being such a kind and generous master,’ said Jack. ‘Thinking of Master Horne and his apprentice, well. I’ve realized I could have had it much worse. I’m speaking out of turn, I know, but you’re more like a … father than any man I’ve ever known.’ Tears glistened in his eyes.

  ‘Tucker …’

  ‘It’s true, sir. You’ve made me the man I am today. And I hope I do you proud.’

  Crispin cursed the boy for making him blink back tears. ‘Jack …’

  ‘And so, Isabel and me, we … we wish to christen the boy “Crispin” … but only if you think it right and proper.’ Quickly, he added, ‘I’d not insult you, sir, if you thought that a servant had no right to your name. It’s just that we would give you something, sir, for all that you have given me. And … with your own son out of reach, as it were …’

  Crispin ran his hand over his face and wiped his runny nose. ‘Dammit, Tucker.’ He had to swallow that warmth away from his throat a few times before he could speak. ‘You honor me, Jack. Of course I will consent.’

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ said Isabel. And then she looked down at the tiny babe who didn’t seem to look as bad as Crispin had first thought, and whispered, ‘Welcome to the world, little Crispin.’

  AFTERWORD

  Perhaps you were looking to refresh your memory about Philippa Walcote. You can find her story in the first Crispin book, Veil of Lies.

  And if you were looking for the church mentioned in this story, be at peace. There is no St Modwen’s Church in All Hallows Barking (and isn’t that a great name?). There never was one in London. I added it. There is only one parish in England devoted to St Modwen, and that is in Burton upon Trent in Staffordshire, part of the Diocese of Lichfield, where she founded her monastery. It was the only liberty I took … besides walking corpses and murdering people who didn’t exist, of course.

  St Modwen or Modwenna was an Irish noblewoman who made a pilgrimage to Rome and became an abbess of some repute, performing miracles of various kinds. You won’t find any images of her, or much of a surviving cult. Henry VIII’s men, led by Thomas Cromwell, who went about the country dissolving monasteries and setting the monks and nuns adrift, made sure the relics, statues, and portraits of saints were destroyed so ‘that there should no more idolatry and superstition be there used’. So said Sir William Bassett in 1538, when he was instructed to remove the image of St Modwen. ‘I did not only deface the tabernacles and places where they stand,’ said Sir William, ‘but also did take away the crutches, shirts and sheets with wax offered, being things that did allure and intice the ignorant people to the said offerings, also giving the keepers of both places admonition and charge that no more offerings should be made in those places till the King’s pleasure and your lordships be further known in that behalf.’ The statue of the saint was said to stand with a red cow and was equipped with a staff that could be removed, which was supposedly helpful to women suffering labor pains when they leaned on it. I suppose Isabel could have used that.

  Also, a word about walking corpses and blood on their faces. There were reported incidents in the Middle Ages and in slightly more recent times of such fears, when freshly interred corpses’ graves appeared to be disturbed. Animals, certainly, dug into turned earth, but more likely the culprits were grave robbers, looking for easy pickings. People would bury loved ones with their prized possessions, such as daggers and swords as well as jewelry, to take with them to the afterlife. After all, they’ve been doing that since ancient Egypt and before. But when grave robbers opened coffins they’d find that face cloths around the mouth were bloodied, and instantly ascribed it to the late-night wandering of the corpse. Of course, we know now that once any kind of animal dies, it can no longer rely on living enzymes and circulating blood to prevent the bacteria from breaking down the body, and some of that putrefaction of decay creates liquid waste, some of it being blood and plasma, which excretes where it can. Some of that results in gases that expand the body and split it ope
n. But, not to put too fine a point on it, there are other openings of the body. One is the mouth. It’s naturally occurring, this appearance of what seems to be blood on the mouth. But they didn’t know that then, and all sorts of fanciful tales emerged, like those of vampires.

  You might have noticed that I skipped a year from the last book, Season of Blood, to this. I was interested in moving Crispin’s story along. We might be skipping another year in the next book, Traitor’s Codex, to 1394, involving Crispin with a mysterious manuscript that the Church is willing to kill to get their hands on. See all about Crispin’s books, including discussion guides and the series listed in order, at JeriWesterson.com.