He made the turn at the Shambles. The acrid smell of burnt timbers and cloth still lingered. He tried not to but couldn’t help flicking his eyes toward the charred beams and fallen walls. There was nothing left but a black skeleton and a sooty foundation. The bitter smell was strongest when standing before it. Passersby ticked their heads, and some even approached and rested their hands condolingly on his arm.
There was nothing left of the top floor, their lodgings. It had fallen in to the floor below and burnt to a crisp. Nothing to salvage, yet he moved forward anyway. The outside stairs were gone. Only a charred pile of rubble and ash was left of that. He climbed up over the stone sill to the tinker shop and carefully made his way over the smoldering remains. He could just about tell where the walls had been that separated shop from bedchambers. The forge was still there, blackened, and its stone base cracked from the heat, but it was there, along with the hearth.
He looked up not into rafters, but into the gray sky.
Long ago he and his mother shared a pile of straw under a leaky roof at their harsh master’s shop. That was all he had known until she died and he struck out on his own at eight years old. He had made his way in the shelter of a church doorway or an abandoned storehouse. There was a brief stint in the boy’s stew, but he had shut that from his mind long ago. He had liked the open. Seemed safer sometimes. But in the winter he had had to find some place to keep him from freezing to death. A church was barely warm enough but it sufficed. He had eaten what he could find or steal, but six years ago when Master Crispin saved him from the sheriff, he decided he would serve that recalcitrant man … whether he had wanted a servant or not. Mostly he had not. But Jack had found a way to worm himself into these lodgings and not just for the shelter and meager warmth they provided. Master Crispin was a man worth serving in more ways than Jack ever could have imagined.
He shuffled through, kicking at charred cooking pots and tools that the tinker had been fixing or creating to sell. They were all too burned from the fire to do anyone any good now.
He bent down and picked up a knife, or what had been a knife. The wooden handle had burned away, leaving the blackened tang, naked and alone. The thin curved blade was strange in shape, unlike any he had seen before. He turned it in his hands, but it left black marks on his palms and fingers and he let it fall with the other detritus. He wiped his hands on his cotehardie and sighed.
Climbing out the window, he met Martin Kemp, his erstwhile landlord, looking just as woebegone.
The man was muttering into his clenched hands. ‘What are we to do?’
‘How are you faring, Master Kemp? Have you gotten your family situated?’
‘Yes, we are living with my in-laws.’ He wore a drooping expression that Jack could well appreciate if the rest of Alice’s relatives were like her. ‘But I can’t understand what happened.’
Jack shrugged. ‘With a forge there is always the possibility of a coal getting loose, one you never noticed, even with the forge outside as it was. It’s not your fault, sir.’
‘But that’s impossible. The forge has been cold for days. I was making repairs to it. Some of the mortar has been cracked over the years. And the hearth was banked before we retired.’ He shook his head. ‘But it might be as you said. A coal could have escaped the hearth …’ His voice trailed off as he frowned, looking at the building he had called home for far longer than Jack had.
But Jack ruminated and turned to the tinker. ‘The forge was cold?’
‘Oh yes. For days. And with so much work ahead of me. I don’t suppose I can do it now. All those repairs ruined! What will become of us? I do not know if I can afford to rebuild.’
Jack’s thoughts couldn’t be spared for what might happen to Kemp and his family, or even Master Crispin and himself. But he focused instead on Martin’s words about his forge. The man was precise in his work, and always conscious of his forge and the danger. He had his family to consider, naturally. But if he had been careful and the hearth was banked as he claimed – and Jack had no reason to suspect otherwise – then what had started the fire?
Or even more disquieting, who?
He sucked in a breath. Walter Noreys had threatened him. And that family had already tried to do his master harm. Everyone knew where they lived. It was a matter of course. If no one knew where they were then how would clients find them? Walter Noreys had said that he would get his revenge. Had it been him?
He turned to tell that to Martin … but shut his lips again. It would not help the man or his loud and shrewish wife to know that the fire that had left them all homeless had been deliberately set. Surely Alice Kemp would sue them for damages, for funds they did not possess, and he would be damned if he allowed Master Crispin to be beholden to Alice Kemp for the rest of their lives.
He offered a few absent well wishes to Master Kemp and finally took his leave, watching the man carefully climb through the sill and pick his way delicately through the sooty maw.
Giving the burnt shell of his home one last look, Jack trudged onward toward Newgate prison. When he reached the arch, the serjeant Wendell Smythe, leaning on his pike, looked Jack over. ‘I suppose you want to speak to your murdering master.’
Jack was too weary to take the bait. ‘Aye. May I pass?’
Wendell cocked a brow at him, and sensing no sport out of Jack today, only gestured with his head to go on.
Jack took the stairs slowly, measuring what he was going to say. He traveled down the long passages, skipping the sheriffs all together, and heading toward Melvyn, the head gaoler. He would either let Jack in to speak to his master or he would not.
When he reached the open arched chamber with the large brazier, Melvyn spotted him first.
‘And there is Young Master Jack. How goes it, Tucker? How does it feel to live in a live coal?’
‘Oh. You heard, eh?’
‘Who hasn’t on the Shambles?’
‘Then … does he know?’
Melvyn grinned a crenelated smile. ‘I was the one what told him.’
Jack sighed. Of course. No dignity was to be left either of them. ‘Can I see him?’
Melvyn folded his arms in a mockery of consideration. He licked his lips. ‘Maybe. For a coin.’
‘Ah, man. I just lost everything in the world and you want a coin?’
The other gaolers muttered, and if conscience Melvyn had, it was bruised by their mockery. He sneered, unfolded his arms, and trudged forward. ‘Come on, then!’ he groused.
Jack followed quickly into the darker passage. The man unhooked the chatelaine of keys from his belt, chose one, and unlocked the door. ‘No more than five minutes.’
Jack moved forward eagerly, but cringed when the door slammed and locked behind him. He certainly hoped Melvyn intended on letting him out again.
And there was his master, sitting on his pallet bed, feet shackled with heavy iron manacles with a strong chain between them, leaning back against the wall with – of all things – a black and white cat on his stomach. Absently he stroked, looking distantly at nothing at all.
‘Master …’ said Jack quietly.
The man’s head immediately shot upward. ‘Jack!’ He dislodged the cat as he rose. He took three shuffling steps and enclosed Jack in an embrace. ‘Thank God you are well. I feared the worst but no one knew, no one would say.’
‘I am well, master. But our lodgings …’
‘Well …’ He stood back and shrugged with a deep sigh. ‘Nothing lasts forever.’
It was true that his master had had his fair share of sorrows and bad luck. And anyone else might be surprised by the seeming glibness of his response. But Jack knew him. Knew what was meant by the tautness of his jaw, the burling of his brows over his eyes. ‘But I did manage to salvage our few belongings.’ He stepped forward and said reverently, ‘I saved your sword, sir. I couldn’t let it burn.’
‘Jack!’ The tight gnarl of muscle at his jaw unwound all at once and his eyes widened with astonishment. The grateful
brightness in his eyes was worth the pain of Jack’s burned hand.
Jack stared at his shoes. ‘And your chess set. And here.’ He reached into his scrip and pulled out the book. ‘I brung you your Aristotle, sir.’
His master took it reverently, turning it over in his hands as if he hadn’t seen it before, as if he hadn’t spent every brief moment of leisure poring over the thing.
‘I’d have rather brought you a prayer book, but seeings that we don’t have one …’
He chuckled. ‘Ah, Jack. A poor son of the Church am I when the words of a pagan offer me more comfort than the words of God. But I know God watches over me and my ways. He made the pagans as well as the Christians.’ He lifted the small book. ‘I do thank you for this. You don’t know how much I appreciate it to fill the long and lonely hours.’
Jack slouched, for the thought of it always made him uncomfortable. ‘And I also saved the … the little portrait.’
His master looked up from his scrutiny of his book. ‘Jack,’ he whispered. Master Crispin approached again. Soft at first, he took Jack’s shoulders, until his fingers dug in, tightening with emotion. ‘What made you do such a foolish, dangerous thing?’
Jack gazed at the face of his master, his savior more times than he could count. There were lines at his forehead, lines etched down from his nostrils nearly to his chin, lines at the creases of his gray eyes. He was thirty-five years old but he looked forty-five.
‘For you, sir.’
His master’s face, as lined and as wind-burned as it was, lay naked, open. So raw was the emotion in his eyes that Jack had to look away.
Master Crispin shook his head, eyes now puzzled, wet. He turned away from Jack and hobbled toward the window, gazing up at it, bathing himself in the gray light. ‘No one … has ever done such a thing … for me.’
‘Always for you, sir. Because I’m grateful.’
‘It’s a miracle you got out alive at all. So many burdens.’
‘I know,’ he said, wiping at his eyes. ‘I was beginning to think what a fool thing it was when the smoke filled the room. But you know me.’ He chuckled even though he didn’t feel it. ‘I just barreled through. Right out the back window and along the roof. Burnt me hand a little.’ He looked down at the bandaged hand, turning it this way and that. Suddenly a pair of callused hands gently held it, turning it to examine it for himself.
‘My poor apprentice. You’ve earned your fee today, there’s no doubt about it. And I would pay you … if only I could.’
Jack nodded, all words done.
Master Crispin stood looking at Jack for only a moment more. He slowly returned to his place on his cot. The cat returned, too, and settled on his stomach as if he had never risen.
‘You’ve made a friend,’ said Jack.
‘Yes. God knows where he came from. He keeps returning. I call him Gyb.’
‘Original,’ muttered Jack.
Master Crispin stroked the cat. ‘I was thinking of calling him “Lancaster” …’ Jack snorted. ‘But it was only a fleeting thought. Well, what’s the news? I hope it is better than the last I received so gleefully from Melvyn last night about our lodgings.’
‘About that, sir. Master Kemp said he was assiduous with his hearth and that his forge has been cold for the last two days.’
Master Crispin slowly looked up from his attention to the cat. ‘Are you saying that someone set our house on fire?’
‘Aye, sir. And I have reason to believe it was Walter Noreys.’
‘The devil you say!’ He jolted to his feet, and this time the cat made his displeasure known at being so abused, yowling and scrambling toward the corner.
‘A vile devil it is, sir. He still believes you have the Tears of the Virgin and are hiding it. He accosted me on the street with a knife and, without the help of my fellow townsfolk, I might have been laid low. And then he swore his revenge.’
‘The cur. Should we bring charges?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I’d not have Alice Kemp turn on us with a suit for damages.’
‘I see your point. Martin’s family is well?’
‘Aye, sir. No one was hurt.’
‘That is a blessing, then.’
‘Aye. A blessing. Today I will steal the eel monger, and we will be stealthy so he may identify Walter Noreys. At least it is my hope. That he was one of many men who paid Elizabeth le Porter a call.’
‘Ah. Good thinking, Jack.’
‘And I have also begun my investigation of the two women who were strangled. They were both whores, sir. One in a stew right there in the Bread Street Ward, and the other plying her trade on her own.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘I do. And since their patrons were well known by their neighbors, I am making a list to see if any match. Surely a client might have done the deed.’
‘Good, good,’ said Master Crispin, thinking.
Jack felt reassured by his master’s acknowledgment.
But then his throat dried up with his next thought. Could he burden his master with this?
He swallowed and licked his lips. ‘And … there is one more thing. Er … Master Gilbert …’
Master Crispin looked up expectantly.
Jack bit his lip and, conscious that he was mangling his cotehardie hem, made his hands rest at his sides. ‘H-he has a niece and she’s come to live with him on account of her father. Well, he died. Gilbert is raising her as his ward. And so … she, that is, Isabel, works in the tavern. And she stands to inherit all, you see. And … and … But it isn’t just for that. Not at all.’
‘Jack.’ Master Crispin’s tone softened and he cocked his head. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Er … It’s about … Isabel.’
‘Oh, I see. Do you … fancy her?’
He knew his master would understand. ‘Aye, sir. I do. I know I haven’t much to offer a lass, but …’
‘You mustn’t do a thing until you ask Gilbert’s permission. You haven’t, have you?’
‘Oh no, sir! Never would I. And Gilbert did talk to me. And he’s granted it. Permission, I mean.’ Jack shook his head, still stunned by the wonder of it all.
‘He did? What were his reasons? Forgive me, Jack. But as you said, our prospects – especially now – are thin.’
‘He said that I was a man who would keep his oaths, and he said that was more important that a man with riches and no soul.’
‘God’s blood,’ he said under his breath. The grin formed on his master’s face and he approached again, and again enclosed Jack in an embrace. ‘Well … bless me. And God’s grace on you, Jack. Look at you. You think yourself a man, do you?’
Jack stood tall. ‘I am, sir.’
‘And so you have proved yourself to be. Is the lady willing?’
‘I think so, sir. Though I have not yet talked to her. She’s still a young thing. All of fifteen.’
‘Well, not as young as you think. Though give it some time. Let the fruit of your venture ripen in its proper course.’ He rocked on his heels. ‘If she has turned your head, she must be pretty …’
Jack felt his cheeks burn and he nodded.
‘And clever …’
He nodded again.
‘Then well done.’ His grin soon faded. ‘I suppose this means … you will leave me.’
‘Sir?’
‘When a man marries he must see to his family. And right now … there is no place for me to live, let alone you and a wife.’
‘But sir! I would never leave you!’
‘There comes a time, Jack …’
‘No! I will not. And there will be no further talk on it. You and I, we have an understanding. Do you not remember the vow we made to one another in Canterbury?’
The lopsided grin was back on his master’s face. ‘I did not think you remembered.’
‘’Course I did! You said to me “there are to be no lies, no secrets between us. My yes means yes and my no means no. And thus it will always be between you and me.” I took
you at your word, sir.’
‘And I took you at yours. Very well, Jack. Woo your lady, with my blessing. And we will work out the rest. As long as I can get out of this damned prison alive.’
‘You will, sir. If I have anything to say about it.’
Master Crispin said no more. He merely gazed at Jack with a mild expression that seemed to say much. When Melvyn came to the door, Jack was ready to leave.
He headed to Watling and came up to the eel monger’s door. The smell of salt and fish was strong around it and the stone portico seemed to be perpetually wet from those sloshing barrels. He knocked smartly on the door and waited, hoping the man had not headed yet to church.
Buckton opened the door and blinked. ‘Oh. Er … you’re here.’
‘As I said I would be, sir. Are you ready to oblige me with your company?’
He seemed to consider, but with a reluctant shrug, the man donned his cloak, locked his door, and followed Jack out.
Jack admitted to some distraction of his own. His mind lighted on burning timbers, on the lined face of his master, of the good fortune of a future with Isabel to whom he had not yet spoken, and to … so many other things. Keep your mind on it, Jack.
He hurried Buckton to Lombard Street and hovered in the shadows across the way from the Noreys household. He had no wish to run into Walter Noreys. His anger at the man bubbled like a pot full of stew over the fire. How dare he! How dare he destroy Jack’s home? He wanted to take his blade to him but knew he mustn’t. Instead, he concentrated on what Buckton would see if he could identify him. The eel monger was uniquely situated to observe the comings and goings of Mistress le Porter’s guests and this would be the proof of it to bring to the court.
They waited. The shadows wended their way across the lane. Church bells rang, skipping from church to church, parish to parish. And still they waited.
Buckton fidgeted. ‘How long must we wait?’
Jack clenched his arms over his chest and leaned back against the rough daub of the shop wall. ‘I don’t know,’ he grumbled.
‘Must we spend all of the Lord’s day here?’
‘You practically begged me to help. Why this sudden change of heart? And besides, what better way to spend a Sunday? We are doing God’s work, helping to free my master.’
A Maiden Weeping Page 18
