Brother Eric left them to it and receded into the corridor’s shadows, while Crispin followed on the heels of Brother John.
The monk opened the door to the abbot’s lodgings and peered around the door. ‘Father Abbot, you have a visitor.’
The abbot sat facing the fire. His tonsured head laid back against the chair and, as far as Crispin could see, his eyes were closed, his wrists loose and hanging over the chair arms. In the anteroom, the abbot’s desk was messy with parchment rolls and open accounting books.
‘A visitor? Really, Brother John.’ His voice was muffled from the crackling fire. Brother John set the tray down on the small table near the abbot. ‘I am exhausted from singing the Mass,’ Colchester went on, ‘and need my sustenance. I don’t have time or vigor for a visitor.’
John poured his ale and offered the full cup to his abbot. ‘Even for … Crispin Guest?’
Abbot Colchester sat up. ‘Crispin Guest? Here?’
‘In the flesh,’ said Crispin, unable to resist.
The abbot twisted round to look. ‘By Saint Peter. It is you.’ He stood. The abbot was a man who didn’t seem to want to appear flustered, and he stood by his chair, ruffled but smoothing out his expression and cassock. He had what Crispin always described as a workman’s face, solid and square. Those blue, dusky eyes were always sharp, always tracking, and his features, though firm, were usually set in a stoic posture. Except now there was a brightness to his eyes and the wisp of a smile on his lips.
‘Are you seeking sanctuary?’
Crispin coughed a laugh. ‘No, Lord Abbot. I was lawfully released by the sheriffs. To what purpose …’ He crossed to the fire and stood before it, warming his hands and face. ‘Who can say?’
The abbot seemed relieved at those tidings and sat again. ‘Brother John, bring Master Crispin a cup. He can share my tray if he hungers.’
‘I am well, Lord Abbot. But I thank you.’
‘Then to what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I come to you as I used to come to our dear late Abbot Nicholas, to ask about the nature of relics.’
‘Ah.’ Colchester cut a slice of cheese and placed it on a torn piece bread. He ate them together and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Might you be speaking of the Tears of the Virgin?’
‘Yes. It does seem to be at the heart of these matters … as you obviously already know.’
‘News travels fast. Especially news of this kind. The famed Tracker of London on trial for murder? How could it not have reached Westminster with lightning speed?’ He tore a piece of meat from the bone and nibbled delicately on it. ‘Well, what can one say? There are many such relics sprinkled about, all over the continent.’
‘Are they truly the tears of the Holy Mother?’
‘Impossible to know. When a church or monastery acquires a relic, there is provenance. When a private party has such in their possession it is difficult to know exactly where it came from.’
Brother John handed Crispin a full cup of ale. He sipped. Small beer, then. He took a heartier sample and then set the cup aside. ‘It is said to heal …’
‘As most relics do.’
‘Indeed, but also to confer on those around it a sort of empathy for others. One feels the pain of one’s fellow man.’
‘Curious. I have never heard of this aspect of a relic.’
‘Nor have I.’
‘And you have a great deal of experience with them.’
‘Too much,’ Crispin said into his shoulder.
‘Gratia Lachrymarum, the Gift of Tears,’ said the abbot thoughtfully. ‘It might be so, this empathy. A saint weeps for mankind, and our Holy Mother, the mother of us all, surely weeps the most. Her tears might easily grant others this “gift” of love for one’s fellow man. A most interesting prospect. I must study it further.’
They sat in collegial silence, sipping their beer, until the abbot spoke again.
‘Since you are free …’
‘Temporarily.’
‘Temporarily, what do you intend to do?’
‘Find the true murderer, of course. I must be fully exonerated. It won’t do to have the scent of such about me.’
‘I’m certain treason holds its own strong scent.’
Crispin forgot how blunt the man could be, and so he only grimaced as he put the cup to his lips. ‘Yes. My treason is a stain on my character that no amount of hot water will clean away. That is enough for any lifetime.’
‘I imagine so. If you’ve come to me for advice, I will gladly give it. You are innocent, yes?’
Crispin tamped down his affront. ‘Yes. Very.’
‘In that case, my advice to you …’ He set down his cup and shifted to the edge of his seat. ‘My advice, Master Crispin, is to run.’
‘What? My Lord Abbot!’
‘We have not known each other long, it is true. My predecessor knew you for a much longer time. And though I at first dismissed his glowing accounts of your character as the ramblings of an old man …’
Much thanks for that, Crispin mused.
‘… I have gotten to know well your character for myself. The evidence would seem to be against you. Ordinarily I would never flout the law, for I do serve the king, but I serve God first. “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and render unto God what is God’s.” But it is not fitting to martyr yourself when the great good you do can go on. Run, Crispin. It is the only sensible thing to do.’
When he finally closed his jaw at the surprise the abbot’s words engendered, Crispin sat back. ‘I … I do not intend to martyr myself. I intend to clear myself. And I shall not run. That is not the honorable course.’
‘I see.’ The abbot, too, sat back and took up his cup. He turned the silver goblet and stared at the intricate designs etched on its shiny surface before he drank. He firmed his lips and set the goblet’s base on his thigh. ‘You think you have a chance?’
‘I sincerely hope I do. If I can get enough time. There are new witnesses, new testimony to be gained. And I intend to find even more. If the proceedings had not been so rushed …’
‘Yes, we all wondered at that. No doubt the sheriffs … or even at the king’s urging … Well, it is best not to speculate too deeply. But I’m certain those sheriffs are betting good coin you will not return. Perhaps hoping for it. To hang you now, after you’ve proved your worth to the people of the city. Well, there might be an uprising. I’m almost certain that they released you so that you would flee and prevent that which they hope to avoid.’
Crispin cradled the goblet against his chest and chuckled. ‘They’ll lose that bet.’
‘But will you?’
He raised his brows. ‘Pray God I do not. But look here. There is something else I would discuss with you.’
After Crispin talked at length to the abbot, he was satisfied, and finally with a bow, withdrew from the abbot’s chamber, saying his farewells.
He needed no escort out of the cloister, but there was a porter waiting for him at the locked gate, and he used his key to release Crispin – twice in one day, he mused. Once outside the confines of Westminster, he turned on the lane, and headed back toward the outskirts of London to Gray’s Inn.
He reached the courtyard to the inn, scanned the surroundings, and spotted a portico that seemed to be the entrance. He headed there and was greeted by the porter, an old man with wispy white hair and a stooped shoulder. ‘Good day, good master,’ said Crispin, sweeping down to a graceful bow. The porter seemed amused by this. ‘I am looking for a lawyer—’
‘And you’ve come to the right place.’
Crispin smiled. ‘Well, yes. One lawyer in particular. Nigellus Cobmartin.’
‘Oh indeed. A most accomplished and affable fellow. Though … he lost his first case. God have mercy.’ He crossed himself and shook his head. ‘I fear for the fellow who struggles for his life in his current trial. What was the name of the prisoner …?’
‘Crispin Guest …’
‘Oh yes! That’s it. Being tried
for murder. Cobmartin’s second murder trial. Dear me. Hope it doesn’t end as the first did. Not always the lawyer’s fault, you know. Sometimes … well, sometimes the prisoner is guilty. I’ll take you to his lodgings. What did you say your name was?’
‘Crispin Guest.’
The man looked back sharply, mouth open. ‘God’s teeth! I … I …’
Sighing, Crispin reassured with a congenial expression. ‘And sometimes the prisoner may not be guilty but is under onerous circumstances.’
‘Forgive me, Master Guest. I have been at this too long and my tongue flies away from me at times. But here. What are you doing free if your trial continues?’
‘That is a very good question. One I should like to put to my lawyer.’
‘Oh! Indeed. Let us go then.’
‘Let’s.’
The old man led Crispin through a passage and into a great hall. Men milled. Each seemed to be discussing great matters with deep frowns, wild gesticulations, and loud voices. Some looked to be no older than Jack, while others were Crispin’s age and some far older. A mix, then, of apprentice, student, and tutor.
Out of the great hall they went, leaving behind the subtle fragrance of meals cleared away. The scent reminded Crispin that he had eaten little today and food would be in order soon, especially after his walk to and from Westminster. If he hadn’t been in such haste he might have partaken when the abbot offered.
Up a staircase and then the old man stopped. He pointed even farther up the stairwell. ‘Master Cobmartin resides up in the attic room. He may be there now. And … do forgive me again for my wayward tongue, Master Guest. I do hope for the full acquittal of your trial.’
‘As do I, sir.’
The man scurried away while Crispin climbed. He got to a door and knocked, little expecting it to be answered. But when it was yanked open and Cobmartin stood in the entry, staring at Crispin in incredulity, Crispin felt a measure of relief. ‘May I come in?’
‘Master Crispin! What are you doing here?’
‘Can we not discuss it inside rather than out?’
‘Of course, of course. Come in.’ He stepped aside and allowed Crispin passage.
Crispin ducked inside and looked around the cluttered space, with its cramped and slanted ceiling, full shelves, and table covered in parchments.
‘May I offer you refreshment?’
‘I am hungry, Master Nigellus. If it isn’t too much trouble …’
‘Not at all.’ The lawyer grabbed a wide wooden bowl that had the leavings of his meal in it – a haunch of coney, a quarter of a meat pie, some roasted vegetables – and shoved it into Crispin’s hand. He scooped up the parchment rolls from a chair and deposited it on his bed, already cluttered with rolls, and bid him sit. He cleared a space at the table and cleared another chair and sat, pondering his client as he ate.
A jug on the table held ale, and he poured a cup and slid it forward.
‘Much thanks,’ Crispin said between mouthfuls.
Nigellus watched him eat for as long as he could, wriggling and resettling himself in his chair. Crispin took pity. He swallowed a dose of ale and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth. ‘It seems the sheriffs released me.’
‘From the trial?’
‘They said nothing of that. They said only that I was to be released but I was to return Monday for the trial.’
‘Well, I must say, it is more than a surprise to see you here, Master Crispin.’
‘Not as surprised as I am to be here. What might be the reason I was freed prior to the completion of my trial?’
‘I know of no reason, sir. No point of law that would see you freed before trial’s end. It is most unusual.’
‘Hmm. And I have another difficulty. I don’t appear to have lodgings any longer.’
‘I had heard there was a fire on the Shambles. It was your residence?’
‘Yes. And not only that. It was deliberately set by a person having to do with this trial.’
Nigellus gasped. ‘Blessed Saint Ives! Why?’
‘Because they believe I am in possession of the thing on which this trial hinges. The Tears of the Virgin.’
Nigellus shook his head. ‘Dear, dear. I understand the sheriffs have confiscated it for the trial, so it is safe at Newgate.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it.’
Nigellus rose and paced as Crispin ate. ‘I tell you, Master Crispin, I do not understand the reasons for the sheriffs letting you go. I have never seen the like.’
‘I try not to question good fortune when it comes my way. But I had wondered if there wasn’t some sinister intent behind it.’ He continued eating, but when he felt the man’s eyes upon him he looked up. ‘What?’
‘Master Crispin … why didn’t you make your escape?’ He moved toward him and slowly sat opposite. ‘Any other man would have left the city, never to return. The shadow of the gallows still falls upon you. The jury could still easily convict. Why did you not go?’
And so he asks it, too. He sopped up the last of the scraps and sauce with a torn piece of bread. ‘I am not like other men,’ he said softly. ‘At least … well. It … would have been dishonorable to simply run. How could I live with myself if this conviction were hanging over my head?’
‘Forgive me, Master Crispin, but how could you live? You still might die if you stay.’
Crispin pushed the empty plate away and wiped his lips. ‘I have given you my answer.’
Nigellus looked as if he might reply but changed his mind. Instead, he stared at the table, at the empty plate, and finally at his ink-stained fingers. ‘I will do my best for you, Crispin. But you must know, that my last trial …’
‘So I’ve been told. That was your last trial. This is your current and best. Your advice has been sound. It will be through no fault of yours if the jury convicts me. But I am free and I will fight the Devil himself to make certain I grab all the facts so that they will have no alternative but to declare me free of guilt. But, er …’ He cast a glance toward the window, whose shutter lay open. ‘I have no shelter for the night. Might I … might I impose upon you …?’
‘Oh of course! You must be my guest, Crispin. I can …’ He whipped around, looking for a suitable place amongst the detritus of his law books and scrolls.
‘Never fear, Nigellus. I have slept on the floor before. If I can find the floor.’
‘Forgive me. My accommodations here are small, and I am not the tidiest of persons. Do make yourself at home as much as you can.’
‘I suppose I should send word to my apprentice. But I have much to do before that.’
‘I will see to it that he knows your whereabouts. But why keep it a secret?’
‘A man burned down my lodgings. I shouldn’t like it to happen again. I think it likely that Jack is staying at the Boar’s Tusk. I will return later this evening, Master Nigellus, with your indulgence.’
‘Investigate away, Master Crispin. Would you like me to accompany you?’
‘No, Nigellus. I work best alone. I thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me yet. But by the Mass, this is all most interesting. I might someday write a poem!’
Crispin said nothing, only smiled as he made his way from the lawyer’s humble lodgings.
EIGHTEEN
Sunday, 18 October
Jack was making his way back to the Boar’s Tusk when a hulking shadow crossed his path. ‘Noreys!’ He yanked his dagger from its sheath to face him … and faltered when he saw the bewildered countenance of Hugh Buckton instead.
‘Master Buckton!’ He breathed with relief and sheathed his blade. ‘I didn’t know it was you, sir.’
‘I come to see if I could help you any further. Maybe there’s another man you would have me identify. For there are all sorts of scoundrels on the streets. I see them all.’
‘I’ll wager you do. But I have naught at the moment.’
‘Oh. Then maybe we should look around Mistress le Porter’s lodgings. Just to see.’
‘S
ee what?’
‘What might have been left behind.’
‘The sheriffs went through it, Master Buckton. If it’s your money you’re looking for, well, they would have been sure to snatch it up already.’
‘Oh, I see.’
They stood in thoughtful silence for a time. Until Buckton heaved a sigh. ‘Well, then. If there’s nothing else I’ll be off.’
‘God keep you, master.’
The man said nothing as he reluctantly trudged away. He stole glances over his shoulder at Jack, but Jack urged him on with a nod of his head. He watched a long time until the eel monger finally disappeared. Shaking his head at man’s folly, Jack turned away toward Gutter Lane and reached the Boar’s Tusk at last. He kept to the rear of the tavern, hoping to remain inconspicuous. He needed time to think.
He tried to keep all the facts fresh in his mind, but as he saw it, he had two main concerns: He had to identify the possible murdering client or clients of the strangled women, and he had to find that third witness. Why was the man in hiding? Why keep his identity a secret? It was a fine puzzle, but also a frustrating one.
It was also frustrating that Isabel was so busy that she couldn’t spare him a moment. He wanted desperately to talk to her. But she was either consumed with the heavy work of the tavern or that slattern Ned was trying to worm his way into her good graces. She gave Ned her smiles, too. Had Jack misread them? Had she simply given every man she met her charming smile and attention? It was driving him mad.
As he considered Isabel and his vexing problems, he also kept half an eye on the door. He didn’t necessarily want it known that he was there at the Boar’s Tusk, just in case the sheriffs got it into their heads to nab him.
And then the door opened and he nearly slipped off his seat from shock.
‘I beg your mercy,’ said the woman to someone at a table near the door. ‘Do you know where I can speak with Crispin Guest? I was told … his lodgings … I was told he often came here.’
He did not hear the reply but he did see the man rise and point directly at Jack. So much for his own stealth. He stood as Helewise Peverel made her way improbably toward him through the Boar’s Tusk.
A Maiden Weeping Page 20
