A Maiden Weeping

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘I do wish to help you, Master Tucker. As I have said. But this waiting …’

  ‘Shush!’

  The Noreyses’ door finally opened, and out stepped the man himself. Jack tensed. He was joined by his father William and his mother Madlyn. They stood in the street for a moment, accompanied by a maid and a male servant, before setting out.

  Jack turned eagerly to Buckton. ‘Well? The younger man. Have you seen him before?’

  Buckton slowly nodded. ‘Aye. I seen him go up to Mistress le Porter several times in the last few days. There was many a time she barred him from coming.’

  ‘Aha! There’s a devil in him to be sure. I thank you, Master Buckton. You’ve done well.’

  ‘And the other, too.’

  ‘Eh?’ Jack turned to look over the Noreys party again as they moved up the lane, away from them. ‘Who?’

  ‘That older woman. She came a few times as well.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Aye. I saw her. She crept in, stealthy like. Didn’t want no one to notice. But I saw.’

  Madlyn Noreys? Jack watched them disappear around a corner. What in heavens did she have to do with it?

  SIXTEEN

  Sunday, 18 October

  Crispin lay back on his cot and listened as the church bells pealed from parish to parish, each tone different from the one before. Having little else to do, he tried to guess which church bell it was by the sound. He could identify St Paul’s easily enough by the deep resonance of the many bells pealing, and he thought he could detect the sound of St Martin’s, a tinny discordant bell, most unpleasant, unlike Christ Church Greyfriars’ bells that had a roundness to their sound that was agreeable to the ear.

  He gave up after a while once they all began to blend together. He cast a glance around his familiar surroundings: hearth, whose fuel was too little; wobbly table; decrepit chair. And Gyb the cat, sitting on the hearth and licking his paw after another rat supper.

  ‘You’re a dangerous creature,’ he told the cat, who flicked only one ear in his direction before ignoring him. ‘You’re far more dangerous than I am. You’ve killed more than me, surely. And yet I rot in here while you are free to come and go.’

  Foosteps. He knew he was the only prisoner at this end of the tower so they must be coming for him. On a Sunday? God’s blood, what now?

  Keys jangled in the lock and the door whined open. Melvyn. He held a dagger – Crispin’s dagger. Crispin tensed.

  ‘What is this?’ he demanded. Was he to be dispatched and by his own blade? Was he too much trouble for this trial to continue?

  Melvyn tossed the dagger to the table. It clanged on the wood. ‘You’re to come with me to the sheriff. And there’s your property.’

  Crispin squinted at him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You’re to come with me,’ grumbled the gaoler.

  Crispin didn’t move. ‘Do you jest with me?’

  ‘Get off your arse now, Guest, or I will lock this door on you again.’

  Crispin jolted to his feet. ‘You don’t have to tell me twice.’

  Melvyn looked as if he was gathering himself to strike when Crispin slid the dagger from the table and shuffled backward into the corridor, dragging the chains with him. They glared at one another for a moment before Melvyn pushed Crispin forward.

  Crispin walked thoughtfully down the corridor to the hall where the gaolers stood over their brazier. They barely noted his passing. It occurred to him that he now had his dagger – and why had that happened? – but that he could turn it on Melvyn and make his escape. Except that he wouldn’t get far. Not with these manacles on his ankles. No, his only alternative was to see what the sheriffs wanted and consider from there.

  At the entry to the sheriffs’ chamber, Melvyn suddenly knelt at Crispin’s feet and brandished a key. He unlocked each manacle, letting them fall with a clatter to the stone floor. He scooped them up by the chain and sneered as he stood to face Crispin again. ‘Good luck,’ he muttered cryptically.

  Feeling suddenly lighter, Crispin nevertheless stood frozen, sensing a trap at every turn. Slowly, he moved forward, his hand resting on his knife hilt. He peered around the corner, and both sheriffs were there. Straightening, he cleared his throat and sauntered in as they looked up.

  He bowed. ‘My lords.’

  ‘Guest,’ said Loveney. ‘We want to talk to you.’

  ‘I am your servant.’

  Walcote snorted. ‘Indeed. Guest, you are the bane of this office. There is not a sheriff that has sat in this chair that wasn’t glad to see the back of you. And here we are in the enviable position of helping you up the steps to the gallows. I can hear the cheers from here.’

  Crispin quirked a brow but said nothing.

  ‘The fact of the matter is,’ said Loveney, taking up the speech, ‘that you are a great deal of trouble.’

  Walcote nearly charged over his desk. ‘You make us look like fools!’

  ‘I bring in the guilty. Is that not what the office of the Lord Sheriff should be doing? Should I be vilified for doing the job you set out to do?’

  ‘For your fee,’ he snarled.

  ‘Yes, for a fee! Why not? I work for it. What else am I to do to earn my keep?’

  Both sheriffs fell silent and merely stared. Crispin ran his palm over the worn leather covering the hilt of his dagger. ‘Why have you … why have I been given my dagger?’

  ‘All in good time, Guest,’ said Walcote. ‘I want to know what you know about these women who were strangled.’

  He spread out his hands. ‘Only what you have heard in court from my apprentice. As you well know, I have been in one of your cells.’

  ‘But surely you know!’

  ‘My lords, I would tell you if I knew anything. For I’ve no doubt it would free me.’

  Walcote exchanged glances with Loveney. He walked to a sideboard, and for a moment, Crispin thought they might be bringing him wine. But no. Walcote took a key from his belt and unlocked the cupboard. Carefully he removed an object. Crispin saw only the glimpse of gold before Walcote hid it in his cradled hands. He walked to the center of the room in front of Crispin and held it up. ‘Have you seen this before?’

  It was the monstrance that held the Tears of the Virgin. ‘How did you get that?’

  ‘Have you seen this before?’ Walcote asked again impatiently.

  ‘Yes. It is the relic owned by the Widow Peverel, the Tears of the Virgin Mary. Why do you have it?’

  ‘Because Madam Peverel feared for its safekeeping. Just this morning someone tried to steal it. And, coincidentally, we need it for evidence. It appears your trial may hinge on this matter.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  Walcote gave a glance toward Loveney and, not seeing the man say otherwise, took the two steps toward Crispin and gently handed it over.

  Crispin held it in his hands, studying the liquid inside the crystal. The phial felt loose in its monstrance and he was careful not to dislodge it. Letting it crash to the floor now in his hands would certainly not endear him to the sheriffs.

  ‘Such a small thing,’ he said, ‘to cause so much pain. Have you arrested Walter Noreys?’

  ‘No,’ said Loveney. ‘What for?’

  ‘For burning down my lodgings.’

  ‘Oh yes. We heard about that.’ There was the tiniest twinkle in Loveney’s eye.

  ‘And for trying to steal this.’

  ‘We have no proof.’

  ‘You’ll get it.’

  Walcote reached over and snatched the monstrance from Crispin’s hand, shoving it quickly back into the cupboard, and locking it smartly.

  ‘That’s partly what we wish to talk to you about,’ said Loveney. ‘If you were temporarily freed, what would you do?’

  ‘Temporarily freed? What do you mean?’

  ‘What he means is,’ said Walcote, ‘if we were to release you, what would you do? Would you run?’

  They both stared at him. He narrowed his eyes. Would he?
He’d have to leave England. There would be no going back. He could sail to France, he supposed. Better than being an outlaw in England. But France! England’s enemy? How could he? What would Jack say? Oh, he’d tell Crispin to run for it and what had England ever done for him? But still. He expected to lay his bones in English soil. His family was buried here. His soul sprouted from English roots, and he could not leave it. But worse. He could not leave the task undone. If he left, with the shade of dishonor over his head … Not again. Once in a lifetime was enough. He could not dishonor himself a second time. Even if it did not go his way.

  ‘No, Lord Sheriff. I would not run. I have a trial from which to be exonerated, for one. And for another, it is a matter of honor to find the true culprit and bring him to justice.’

  Walcote shook his head. ‘That’s what I thought you’d say. Then you are free to go.’

  ‘What?’

  Loveney gestured vaguely. ‘As he said, Guest. You are free to go. But remember, you must return Monday to continue the trial. Bring all the evidence you find to us first.’

  Crispin blinked. This was unheard of. Unprecedented. ‘You’re … releasing me?’

  ‘Temporarily,’ snarled Loveney. ‘You must return Monday. Do you understand, Guest? If we get wind of the slightest stepping out of line, of trying to flee the city, we will be upon you like a boar on a hunter.’

  ‘Don’t you mean a hunter on a boar?’

  ‘Guest!’

  ‘Of course, Lord Sheriff. But … I thought, according to the Statute of Westminster, that a felon accused of murder could not be bailed.’

  Walcote slammed his hand on the table. ‘Are you now a lawyer, Guest? What do you care? You are being so bailed.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By God, Guest! Just get out and thank the Almighty for this unexpected boon!’

  Crispin studied them both, but they would not look at him. ‘I … I might have to go to Westminster. But I shall be back forthwith.’

  Loveney shrugged. ‘Very well. I don’t care to know the details of your travels. Just be sure to be back to the Guildhall on Monday.’

  Crispin checked them both carefully once more for any sign of deceit. He didn’t fancy stepping out of Newgate only to be brought down by an arrow or a pike for escaping. ‘I must take you at your word, then.’

  They said nothing more, so he decided to make a hasty exit. He bowed curtly, pivoted, and marched out the door.

  Down the wooden steps he went, and down into the stone archway. Wendell Smythe and the other serjeant, Tom Merton, merely looked his way but made no other move toward him. They must have been told. He hoped so. Crispin bore no writ, no letter of safe passage. He had only the sheriffs’ word, and he still wasn’t certain he could trust it.

  Hurrying down the street, Crispin looked back only once before he threw his hood up over his head, secured his scrip, and pulled his dark cloak around him.

  He needed to get to Westminster, but first, as much as he hated to see it, he had to go to his lodgings and take a look around. He hurried down Newgate Market, keeping his cloak tight about his body and his hood low until Newgate gave way to the Shambles.

  Good Christ! There it was. A burned shell, like a beached whale, ribs heaving skyward. Except they weren’t ribs but the charred remains of the beams and uprights that had made up the tinker’s shop. There was nothing left of Crispin’s lodgings. How the hell had Jack gotten their goods out of that inferno? The boy was blessed, to be sure.

  He stood before it, surveying the carnage. Yes, it was very much like after a battle, especially a besieged town, ravaged by troops ready to pillage all they could and destroy whatever was left. He had been part of many a rout. But he never expected to be the recipient of such damage. He had lived there nine years. He winced, feeling the sting of loss, of violation and destruction so complete that he suddenly felt set adrift. And he hadn’t experienced that feeling since he had been exiled from court.

  He stepped over what had been the lintel and was startled by the wiry tinker Martin Kemp when he suddenly sprang upward from a pile of rubble.

  ‘Who is it?’ cried the man, brandishing a burnt meat hook. ‘Crispin! Bless my soul. What are you doing here? I thought … I thought …’

  ‘Hush, Martin. I have been given a reprieve of sorts. Freed to do my own investigating. But, er … I would like to keep that information quiet for now.’

  ‘I understand.’ Martin glanced about the street and pulled Crispin in. ‘I’ve been looking to see if I can salvage anything.’

  ‘Have you … talked to my apprentice of late?’

  ‘No. But that boy. He ran right up those stairs to save what he could. Stairs that no longer exist. When he didn’t come out I feared the worst.’

  ‘Jack is a resourceful lad.’

  ‘That he is.’

  ‘But I dread that I must share an unpleasant truth with you.’

  ‘Oh? More unpleasant than …’ He gestured to the blackened room. ‘This?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Martin lifted a cooking pot, crusted with soot and dented from heat. ‘Well then?’

  ‘Jack seemed to think – and I am inclined to trust his judgment – that this fire was deliberately set.’

  Martin’s brows juggled over his puzzled eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Crispin sighed. ‘Martin, you know I have garnered my own legion of enemies over the years. I fear it has culminated in this disaster.’

  Understanding blossomed in his eyes and fear, too. He crossed himself. ‘Bless me, all the saints. Someone tried to … kill you?’

  ‘Or Jack.’

  ‘But … my family, Crispin. You put my family in harm’s way.’

  ‘I never meant to do so, Martin. I am heartily sorry for all this and I thank God that no one was injured.’

  ‘Injured? Aye, that is a mercy. But … my business. My livelihood. Crispin …’

  ‘I know, Martin. I … I would make good for you … if only I could.’

  He patted Crispin’s arm absently. ‘Yes. Yes, I know. What’s to be done?’

  ‘I don’t know. I am currently … without shelter. But I shall find something.’

  ‘Ah me. What a world, eh? What is this city coming to when people start fires and women are strangled?’

  ‘I know, Martin. But it is the world we are born into. It is my task to find those responsible and make them pay.’

  ‘Well … you are good at that, at least. Look at these, Crispin. Just look.’ Another pot, burned down to a dented brittle thing. It flaked off in Martin’s blackened hands. ‘And this. And this … What’s here?’ He bent to retrieve a knife, blade and tang only. It was long and curved. ‘This isn’t mine.’

  ‘A repair, perhaps?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘No. I never treated a knife like this. Do you suppose the fire changed it? So slender and curved a blade.’

  ‘Let me see that.’ Crispin took it and turned it over in his hands. Despite its treatment in the fire, it did not appear nicked or old or in need of repair. ‘Are you certain this is not yours? Either your wife’s cooking knife or one a customer brought in?’

  ‘Aye, I’m certain of that. I know my inventory.’

  Crispin narrowed his eyes at it. What sort of knife was this? But more importantly, to whom did it belong, for surely it might have been dropped by the arsonist?

  ‘May I keep this?’ he asked the tinker.

  Martin shrugged. ‘If you find it useful.’

  ‘Thank you, Martin. God’s blessing on you and yours.’

  ‘And to you, too, Crispin. Give my prayers to your Young Jack. God grant that he stay out of trouble.’

  ‘Amen to that.’ Crispin gave the shelter one last look before he turned up the Shambles. He stuffed the knife blade into his scrip as far as it would go, leaving the blackened end sticking out. His first thought was to go to the Boar’s Tusk, but just because the sheriffs might have made an error by letting him free didn’t mean he
had to advertise where he was. No. He stopped and looked up St Martin’s Lane. Gray’s Inn was a better choice. Best to entreat his lawyer for lodgings. They could surely plot their next move at any rate. And Crispin needed the legal help to prove he intended to return to his trial. For he did. At least … for now.

  But first, he had to get to Westminster. To the abbey and to the abbot, William de Colchester.

  SEVENTEEN

  Sunday, 18 October

  A quarter hour later Crispin found himself outside the grand church. People poured from its western door after Mass. Crispin felt only a short pang of regret that he hadn’t made use of his time in church, but he had so little time to spare, he was certain the Almighty might be in a vein to forgive him.

  He went around to the abbey side and rang the bell at the gate. He was glad to see Brother Eric open for him. ‘Master Crispin! How … unexpected.’

  He offered a lopsided grin. ‘An understatement, I’m sure.’

  ‘You wish to see the abbot? He is breaking his fast in his chamber.’

  ‘Should I wait?’

  ‘No. I think he will be pleased to see you.’

  Crispin followed Brother Eric, though he well knew the way. He had been longtime friends with the late abbot, Nicholas de Litlyngton, but his no-nonsense replacement had been less than approachable. It was only last year, when Crispin had solved the crime of the Coronation Chair, that William de Colchester had finally warmed to him. Crispin found him to be a quiet and studious man of intellect. More often than not, they had discovered many mutual interests and though he did not keep his company as he had with Abbot Nicholas, he did make use of their burgeoning relationship by the occasional sociable visit. Though today was far from sociable.

  When they arrived at the abbot’s lodgings, they met Brother John just bringing in a tray. ‘Oh! Master Crispin. What … what are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s good to see you, too, Brother John. I’ve come to see the abbot.’

  ‘W-well …’

  ‘I assure you, I am not a fugitive.’

  ‘No, of course not …’ he said doubtfully. ‘Please. Follow me.’