The monk strode forth and Crispin followed with Jack directly behind. Quietly, the monks moved single file to a door within the cloister. Once inside, the monks took their places. The abbot, sitting at the head table, motioned for Crispin and Jack to join him, but no one said a word. Sitting in their places, each monk passed platters and bowls after filling their own wooden bowls with fish, onions and pottage.
Crispin watched the eerie assemblage continue to pass their food, and once all had something on their plates, including he and Jack, the abbot intoned a Latin prayer, all bowed their heads, crossed themselves and commenced eating. Spoons scraped into bowls, benches creaked, cloth brushed cloth, but no voice lifted to break the uncomfortable silence.
Crispin knew that Cistercians, above all other monks, held great store by their silences and unnecessary talk was against the Rule. That was one of the reasons the gate was sacrosanct, why visitors were generally not allowed into the community. The fact that a woman had been present confused Crispin to his marrow.
Jack chewed but his eyes darted from face to face. The boy was not given to silences and though Jack had done a service to Crispin by pretending to be a monk at one time and certainly saw such a meal before, it was clear he held the proceedings in deep suspicion.
The food was good, though, and Crispin ate his with measured poise, finishing the excellent ale before his tablemates.
Once all had finished, the abbot rose, gestured a silent benediction over them and left the hall. He made no indication that he was interested in further discussion with Crispin, at least for the time being.
Brother Thomas, hands hidden under his black scapular, returned to stand beside Crispin. He bowed and turned, indicating Crispin should follow him.
Down the arcade and out of the cloister they went, Jack beside him. They left the cloister precincts toward a collection of cottages where, no doubt, corrodians and visitors found their rest. The monk strode to one set apart from the others and opened the door without going in. He said nothing more before bowing and walking away.
Jack poked his head inside. ‘Our baggage, master.’
Crispin entered and saw that their bags were placed carefully by the two spare beds. A small fire burned in the hearth and it was warm inside. He stepped in all the way and closed the door behind him.
‘That’s friendly, isn’t it?’ said Jack, walking around the room and peering into the corners and shelves. The room was fairly stark, with only one coffer, two beds with curtains and a table and two chairs. Beyond the shutter of the back window was a privy.
‘Very accommodating,’ said Crispin, sitting on the bed. The mattress was stiff with straw.
‘Cistercians. They don’t say much.’
‘It is the vow of their order. Talking is to be kept to a minimum.’
‘That’s a wretched life.’
‘Some would say it is better for to contemplate God.’
Jack shrugged, peered into a jug and sniffed its contents. ‘Well.’ He turned to face his master. ‘I assume we’ll be investigating. Where to first, sir?’
He smiled. ‘To the church, I should imagine.’
They left the warm and cozy confines of the cottage and retraced their steps back to the cloister and into the church.
It was hours before Vespers when the monks would have to return to the quire for the Divine Office, so the church was a good starting place. When they crossed the threshold and entered the cold nave with its dim shadows and distant aroma of incense permeating the stone, Jack whispered, ‘What exactly are we looking for, master?’
‘I don’t know. Surely evidence from the theft is long gone. I should like a better look at the shrine for the relic, however.’
‘Didn’t you see it enough when we was praying there?’
He eyed the boy with some disdain. ‘Well, Jack, I seemed to have been admonished for not paying the proper respects at the time.’
Jack smiled, abashed. ‘It’s just that you was looking around like some tradesman. I knew you weren’t paying no heed and I didn’t want that the monks should think less of you.’
Crispin returned the smile. ‘I see. You were looking after my welfare, as you always do.’
With his gaze flitting across the church to each alcove and shadowed corner, Crispin led the way as they moved past the quire, past the rood and into the far apse and its chevet, where the shrine stood.
The shrine itself was bejeweled, not quite as fine as the shrine of St Thomas in Canterbury. Surely something as grand as the Blood of Christ should have a greater shrine than that of a saint, no matter how important that saint was, but Crispin well knew that though Hailes was a popular pilgrimage site, none could compete with that of St Thomas Becket, whose story seemed to compel both noble and peasant alike.
Like a very small chapel of its own, the Hailes shrine also contained a sliver of the cross in its own monstrance. But atop, behind its grilled cage, was the Holy Blood.
Crispin looked about. No monk to guard it. Foolish. He walked up to the shrine without any interference and shook his head.
‘You’d think they’d have someone guarding it,’ said Jack, speaking aloud Crispin’s thoughts.
‘You or I would think so.’
The relic was placed high, but even a person of a shorter height would merely have to bring a stool to reach it. Breaking the lock was easy enough with an iron bar, like a poker.
‘Do you think it’s truly His blood, sir?’
‘Is there any way of knowing for certain?’
‘Someone important gifted it to the monastery. Isn’t that right, Master Crispin? It’s their word, then.’
‘Oft times the pope verifies, lending authenticity to it.’
‘But … what do you think, sir? You’ve seen enough of them.’
Crispin peered in through the little grille to the dull crystal housed within. The rusty red inside the beryl crystal shimmered. He shook his head. ‘I have seen similar … but I know of a few that have been falsified. Red ochre powder mixed with oil or wax. Dry blood may flow, depending on how it is handled. Or sometimes it is goose blood and must be replenished. But this one …’ He nearly pressed his sharp nose to the grille, recalling how its touch could make his fingers tingle. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It is truly the Holy Blood of our Lord,’ said the voice of the abbot behind them, startling them both.
Crispin turned. ‘Forgive me, Lord Abbot, but I have seen my share of false relics. I do not fault my apprentice for questioning the veracity of any we encounter. And we have encountered a great deal of them.’
‘So I have been told.’ The abbot stood before Crispin, somewhat shorter than him, and clasped his hands over his scapular. ‘I knew little about you when you first arrived, Master Guest, but I have monks here who are more worldly than I, apparently, and have since made it their task to inform me.’
‘Interesting. And in so quiet an order.’
The abbot sniffed but said nothing to that.
‘And so. You know I am a man who has come across many a relic.’
‘And still you do not believe.’
‘Is that what they told you, these silent monks of yours?’
‘Is it not true?’
Crispin fixed his thumbs in his belt, flaring his cloak back with his elbows. ‘True enough. Relics, for the most part, are the wishes of men who desire to be closer to God … without paying the cost of doing the good works that would accomplish the same thing.’
‘Oh, I see. Your cynicism comes from a place of experience?’
‘You know of me, so you must know my history. I spent much time at court. Make your own conclusions.’
The abbot must have done, for he added nothing.
‘The Blood,’ said Crispin after a time. ‘With similar relics of Christ’s blood, it is a dry stain within a crystal. But this one flows. Has it always been so?’
The abbot squinted at him. ‘Eh? You’ve seen it … flow?’
‘Yes. As it is now.’<
br />
Abbot Robert frowned and turned to Jack. ‘Do you see it flow?’
Jack stepped forward, crushing his hands into fists with a worried expression on his outflung brows. ‘Aye, my lord.’
‘Well. Master Guest, it is said … that true penitents see the Blood in its flowing state. That those guilty of sin do not.’
‘And … what do those see?’ asked Crispin.
‘They see it as a dried, rusty stain.’
The hairs on his neck rose and he swallowed, trying to soothe a suddenly dry throat. ‘I see.’
The abbot approached and placed a hand on Crispin’s chest, searching his eyes. ‘Yes. I see you do. Would it interest you to know … that very few have seen it flow? Even those … that reside here.’
Crispin took a subtle step back so that the abbot’s hand would fall away. ‘And what, my Lord Abbot, do you see?’
The abbot looked back at the relic and lowered his head. He said nothing. He merely gestured a benediction over Crispin and wandered back into the shadows.
SEVEN
John Rykener left Crispin’s side and did as bid, making his way to the Unicorn Inn on Watling Street. He looked back at Crispin’s retreating figure and sighed deeply. Such an interesting man was Master Guest. And handsome, too, but without the sense that he was aware of it. Yes, a very interesting man. And he had paid John.
With coins in his purse, John did feel better, even after losing a client. And Crispin trusted him to do this job. That was always a precious thing to be prized. People liked helping Crispin. They knew he would treat them honorably.
Strange. He doubted they would have been as eager had he still been a lord.
He felt like whistling but when he was garbed as Eleanor he always took on the persona, which meant a different kind of comportment. He was slim and fine-boned, with pale skin and cloudy gray eyes. He’d watched women all his life – came early into the care and employ of Elizabeth Bronderer, an embroideress, who taught him what he knew of the stitchery trade … and of the other, though the more extensive tutelage had come from Anna, the whore of a former servant of Sir Thomas Blount. She knew things and taught him such that he could fool any man that he was a woman. Though, admittedly, few men seemed to care that he was a man. Probably even delighted in it. Or so his purse often told him.
Thinking of his purse put him in a mind of practical matters. If he was to be a lady’s maid to this woman, this Katherine Woodleigh, then he needed his shaving kit. It wouldn’t do to sprout a day’s worth of beard if he was to play a woman.
He pivoted sharply and headed toward Candlewick Street to the place atop a wick-maker, the highest attic room with a ladder leaning against the wall its only access. He clutched a rung and glanced around. No one looking. With one hand, he hiked up his skirts and carefully climbed. Once he reached the top, he had to let the skirts fall to grab his key from his girdle. He unlocked the shutter to his entry, pulled it open and climbed clumsily inside. Quickly, he scooped up his toiletries into his scrip, grabbed a bit of embroidery and put some of his money from his purse into the jar he kept on a shelf. After smoothing his gown, he commenced climbing back down.
It was only a bowshot from his lodgings to Watling, first crossing Walbrook Street where Candlewick became Budge Row. He could see the sign of the Unicorn up ahead when Budge became Watling. He straightened himself again, coyly smiling at men who eyed him with a smirking wink. He made a note that there were men a-plenty near the inns who might want a bit of sport and were willing to pay for it.
Raising his chin, he entered the Unicorn and scanned the room. Wide arched beams upheld the roof and the eye was drawn to the large hearth in the center of the back wall. It was wonderfully warm inside and he felt his muscles relax. A man who looked to be the innkeeper approached and John’s hand shot up to his veil, pulling it to partially hide his face. His voice naturally lifted to a higher tone when he was Eleanor, and he offered the innkeeper a beguiling smile. ‘Good sir, I am looking for Katherine Woodleigh. Could you be so kind as to tell me if she is here?’
‘And who would you be, lass?’
‘I was hired as her maid.’
He looked John over and decided. ‘Aye.’ He pointed up the stairs. ‘Last door at the end of the gallery.’
‘I thank you,’ he answered with a curtsey. He strode across the inn and climbed the stairs. Moving with perfect poise and elegance – years ago it had taken many months to master it – he took a sly look back to see the effect on the innkeeper. It was as he suspected. The innkeeper had watched him move all the way up the stairs with a leer still visible on his face.
Those months were not wasted, he thought to himself with a chuckle. It never ceased to amuse him.
He strode to the end of the gallery, postured before the door and knocked.
There was only a moment’s pause before it opened.
A woman, with blue eyes, auburn hair and an upturned nose, stared at him up and down. With an imperious tilt to her chin, she asked, ‘Who are you?’
John curtseyed. ‘My lady. I am Eleanor. Crispin Guest sent me to be your maid, as it seems …’ he looked past her shoulder into the empty room, ‘… you have none.’
‘He what?’
‘Hired me. He had to leave London for a sennight or so, and bid me care for you as your escort and protector.’
She placed a fist at her hip and measured John again under lowered lids. ‘Did he? Protector?’
‘Indeed. For though I am slight of frame I am stronger than I look.’
‘He paid you, you say?’
‘Yes.’
She began to close the door when he stopped her with his hand. She looked up at him as she pushed harder, but John held it fast. ‘Trustworthy as God’s own angels is Crispin Guest. If he says he’ll do a thing, you can rely upon it that he will. And so when he asks, his friends do.’
The woman’s suspicious glare did not abate.
John gave her his most beguiling smile. ‘Er … may I come in? You can test me, if you’d like.’
‘Since he paid you,’ said the woman, stepping aside, allowing him entrance. It looked to be a very ordinary room: a coffer, a table and two chairs, a bed with curtains and an alcove with a smaller cot for a servant. It wasn’t a rich room but it was larger than his own.
He turned to her and rested his hands demurely before him. ‘Anything you need, my lady?’
She had a strange look in her eye and the faintest of smiles on her lips replaced her suspicious expression. ‘The hearth is lit. Fuel lies beside it. I have water in the bucket and I have just eaten. There seems to be nothing I need … at the moment.’
‘Would you have me clear the tray, then?’
‘Not yet. Tell me, what exactly did Master Guest say? Where was he bound?’
‘To Hailes, I think he said.’
She stopped for a moment. ‘Hailes? What a curious vocation, has Master Guest.’
‘Indeed. I have known him for years.’
‘Tell me about yourself, then. How does Master Guest know you?’
‘Our acquaintance was so many years ago now. You see …’ He sidled closer, confidentially. ‘When Master Guest was … was banished from court,’ he said in a loud whisper, ‘it was I who took him in, helped him. He was like a lost lamb. He knew nothing of caring for himself, and him completely without funds. It was a sore thing that the king did to him … not that treason should be taken lightly. But Master Guest has proven his worth time and time again. And who could truly blame him for wanting his mentor, the Duke of Lancaster, on the throne.’
‘Surely King Richard.’
He ducked his head. ‘And long live the king,’ he muttered.
‘Indeed. So you helped him find shelter and an occupation?’
‘I helped him with shelter and food, as did others in London. He found his own way to a vocation. He is now the celebrated Tracker, but that wasn’t always the case.’
‘No? What else did he do?’
‘Dear
me. He foundered. For he was proud and could not find work with any noble house. He was truly shunned by them. Desperation and hunger drove him to the job of a gong farmer, cleaning the privies along the embankment. And then I think he worked as a henchman – not a very nice task. He worked for a time as a scribe.’
‘How did he become a Tracker?’
Katherine’s eyes shone with interest and John got even closer, clasping his hands together in excitement. ‘Well! I heard that he was hired to find a lost necklace … and found that the lady in question – from whom it was stolen – was murdered. He found the necklace and the culprit. People started coming to him and he found he liked the work. He even recovered some stolen items for Westminster Abbey. He is clever at what he does.’
‘You admire him.’
‘Oh, I do.’
‘And are a little in love with him.’
John felt his cheeks warm. It wasn’t often anyone could make him blush. ‘My lady! Well … I think every woman who meets him is a little in love with him. Though he is never for the keeping.’
‘I see. He’s a dallier, is he?’
‘That would be telling tales, my lady.’
Katherine smiled but it soon faded. ‘I cannot believe he has struck out in the middle of a client’s task. My errand is urgent.’
‘But my impression was, my lady, that his venturing out of London had everything to do with your mission.’
‘Oh. Well, then. I must be patient. But it is a sore thing when so much is at stake.’
‘My lady, may I … may I enquire of the nature of your mission?’
Her cheeks paled and she cast a glance toward the fire. ‘My niece. She ran off with an unsuitable man, a man who also stole my fortune. It is dire that Master Guest succeed or I am ruined and so is my kin. The man is married.’
‘Oh! What a cur! My lady, you can be certain that if Crispin Guest is on the trail he will succeed!’
She nodded, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘I am gratified to hear it.’ She shook her head and sank to one of the chairs by the fire. ‘He is my last hope. If he does not succeed, then it is a nunnery for me, for I don’t know where else to go.’
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