“Tucker! I am not a child!”
“Who said you were.” He grasped Crispin’s ankle, nearly upending him, and yanked off one boot and then the other. “Now lie down.”
“Tucker!” Crispin scrambled up onto his elbows. “What is going on?”
Jack went to the door, peeled off his cloak, and hung it again on its peg. He shuffled to the fire and poked at it with an iron. “Well, it’s a right mess, that is certain. The king has sent out a proclamation that there is to be no French invasion after all, that all is well. So now the merchants are upset as no one is stockpiling anymore and the people are upset for spending money they did not have to. And then the talk fell, as it always does, on taxes. And when taxes are brought up, fights break out. Men have been shouting of the days of old King John and mayhap the barons need to tell the king what for as they did in the olden days.” He shook his head. “There’s some talk of the king’s chancellor, Michael de la Pole as well as Robert de Vere, but I do not know the nature of it. Did you know them, Master Crispin?”
Crispin sat up, draping his wrists over his knees. “Yes, I knew them.”
“Thought you did. What is all the talk of them for?”
“I’m uncertain. I know that the chancellor has been responsible for raising taxes and de Vere for … well. For being a burden on the royal income. They are favorites of the king and as favorites, not well liked.”
“Well, the talk out there is rough, sir. Talk of hanging, even.”
“As much as I would like to gloat, there is much to concern me.”
“Why? These men are nothing but favorites to the king, pushing in where they don’t belong, receiving rewards they don’t deserve. No wonder the people are unhappy.”
Jack had obviously absorbed the talk that Crispin and Gilbert Langton often shared while dousing their sorrows at Gilbert’s tavern, the Boar’s Tusk. It gave him the idea that perhaps he should go there to get more of the news. As good an excuse as any. He scooted to the edge of the bed again. But Jack aimed the poker at him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I am going to the Boar’s Tusk.”
“It’s mad out there.”
“I cannot sit here idly while this is going on. I must know more news. With Lancaster out of the country we are in great peril.”
“Blind me,” Jack muttered, lowering the iron.
Crispin donned his boots again and strode toward the door. “Come along, Jack.”
When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, Crispin measured the crowd. The king’s horsemen were trying to disperse them, but the lane was so narrow it was difficult to move that many people out of the way. Crispin grabbed Jack’s cloak and they allowed themselves to be swept toward East Cheap and when they reached Gutter Lane, they took to the left, stumbling away from the melee. Crispin watched the men pass for a moment before he turned away and headed up the lane to the square building with the ale stake leaning into the street. A curled boar’s tusk hung from a rickety sign, and by that as well as the ale stake passersby knew that the Boar’s Tusk was open for business.
They entered the dark interior full of smoky smells and spilled stale beer. Crispin moved quickly to his favorite spot—back to the wall, eyes on the door—and waited for Gilbert or his wife Eleanor to bring a jug of wine.
It was Gilbert with the jug, and he hurried over, no doubt anxious to exchange news with Crispin.
“Greetings, Gilbert.”
He set the jug and bowls down, pouring wine into each of them. Crispin noticed—and so did a sour-looking Jack—that Gilbert still refused to bring a bowl for the apprentice. “How you managed to get here in one piece, I’ll never know,” said Gilbert, wiping the sweat from his wide brow. He took a quaff and set the bowl down, leaning in earnestly. “I was hoping you’d come.”
“Jack tells me the barons are restless.”
“Aye, that they are. I have it from a steward who frequents the Tusk, that thirteen lords have been appointed as a special council.” Crispin sat up at that. This was indeed serious. Michael de la Pole, Suffolk, though loyal to the duke of Lancaster, was swiftly becoming a liability at court. He, like Richard himself, would seldom take the advice of his colleagues. Did he think that having the ear of the king was enough? Why was history so easily forgotten at court? The place where history was made.
“They have just arrived in London,” Gilbert went on. “And riding in on the news that the king does not expect an invasion. Well. I do not know what to think of that. Was it all a ruse to redirect our attention away from his own troubles?”
“I think if the French did not strike when Lancaster’s army was well away to Spain earlier in the year, they had not the funds or the vitality to do so. I think the king is correct in this, yet it does serve as a good distraction.”
A swell of noise rushed just outside the doors of the Boar’s Tusk, and the men in the tavern lifted their heads momentarily before it passed on again to another street.
“Although not distracting enough,” Crispin amended.
“And the joust,” offered Jack. “Don’t forget that.”
“The joust?” asked Crispin.
“I heard it a day or two ago. There’s to be a joust on London Bridge. For the knights who were left behind to guard the city, so they say.”
Crispin snorted. “Beguilements in a time of war? Yes, more distractions indeed.” So that was why the bridge folk were washing their walls and hanging garlands. The constant noise of hammering made sense, too, for viewing stands needed to be constructed.
Gilbert slammed his hand to the table. “Then all those stores he bid us buy? Useless!”
“Not so, Gilbert. You will make use of it. Eventually.”
“Pfft. I could have spared the expense. Now the prices are high due to lack of supply. I have as little patience for these games as does this new council.”
Crispin sipped the wine, easing the tension in his limbs. “Did you by any chance hear who is on this council?”
“I have heard that the Archbishop of Canterbury is in the retinue.”
Jack gasped and Crispin silenced him with a gesture. Gilbert looked from Jack to Crispin. “Oi Crispin. You were in Canterbury last year. Did you … acquaint yourself with the archbishop, by any chance?”
Jack snorted loudly but that was all Gilbert needed.
“Not the archbishop!” he rasped. “Crispin, have you not enough enemies?”
“Then what’s one more?” He smiled and took a drink, licking his lips.
Gilbert shook his head and rubbed nervously at his brown beard. “Crispin, I wish you’d have a better care. This tracking has made you hasty, foolhardy even. You cannot afford to offend the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“I think that ship has sailed, Gilbert. But what more have you heard? With Lancaster out of the way, I am concerned as to what might transpire in the government when he is not here to crush dissenters.”
Gilbert scooted closer. “Dissenters? Crispin, what do you think this council means to do?”
“Who else is on the council?”
“I only heard a few names. The king’s uncles, the duke of Gloucester and the duke of York. Richard, earl of Arundel. Oh, and Richard, Lord Scrope. He was Lord Chancellor before, was he not? He would know if anything was amiss.”
“Indeed. An august body. Well, knowing what I do about the players, they mean to punish Suffolk by impeachment.”
Gilbert gasped.
“The king must be reminded of his limits and responsibilities and that he is obliged to consult with Parliament,” Crispin went on, “especially when excessive household funds have been spent. They can’t punish the king so they diminish his favorite. From what I know of Richard, he believes himself to be an infallible judge, like the early kings of Briton. He has never learned that those days are long gone.”
“But he is the king. The anointed of God.”
“Yes, that is true. But the barons imposed limits centuries ago to prev
ent the indulgence of favors over the well-being of the country. Has he forgotten so soon the sins of his great-grandfather, Edward II?”
“Hush, Crispin!” Gilbert looked around and crouched his bulky frame low over the table. “Talk of the late King Edward could be considered treason in these worrisome days.”
Crispin raised a brow. But he made a hasty scan of the room nonetheless. Edward II was deposed and murdered for his ignorance of his responsibilities. He, too, favored men who did not earn their station. He supposed throwing the name around at this juncture might be too bold, but he was past caring what the nobility thought of him. “I am too well acquainted with treason, as you know, to worry over it now.”
A hand clutched his arm. “Master Crispin, Gilbert’s right,” said Jack. “There’s no need to bring unwanted attention to you, sir.”
Crispin drank down the bowl of wine, but Jack filled it again. “There will be discord until this is resolved. Perhaps it is a good thing that you bought extra stores, Gilbert.”
“If it’s not high prices it’s high taxes. What the devil is Lancaster doing leaving the country at a time like this?”
Crispin kept silent. He brooded over his cup of wine while covertly surveying the room. Seeing Sir Thomas had awakened in Crispin something he had thought long dormant. The very idea of battle and encounters the knight must have had made Crispin’s sword arm itch. He should have been there with Lancaster! Nothing would have made him leave his lord’s side when the smell of battle was in the air. Thomas said he was sent back to England, but Crispin would have found any excuse to stay. Dammit, he would have stayed to the last stroke!
He pushed his wine bowl away and stood up. Perhaps a bit too fast, for the wine made him dizzy. Or perhaps it was that persistent fever and wooly head. He took a moment to feel the ground under him settle and stepped away from the bench. Jack stood, too, trying to anticipate his mood.
“Thank you, Gilbert, for opening an ear.” He reached for his pouch and was glad to have money for once to pay for the drink. “Here,” he said, offering more coins than that single jug cost. “I owe you more than this, I know. But you are too kind a friend to keep a roll of my debts. Please take this, at least, while I am flush.” He laid the coins on the table since Gilbert seemed loath to take them in his hand.
He walked out the door without looking back, knowing Jack would follow. At some point, Crispin would pay a call on Abbot Nicholas. The abbot of Westminster Abbey was bound to know all the more intimate details of what might be happening around the throne. But he supposed his presence in Westminster would not be welcomed, especially now.
He stomped through the mud churned by the rabble. He could hear shouting in the distance but the king’s men, no doubt, were doing their job.
“Master! Master Crispin!”
He did not stop but glanced over his shoulder at Jack trotting to keep up with his furious pace.
“Wait, Master Crispin. You are stirring yourself up.”
That boy knew him too well. “Go on, Jack. Go on to whatever devilry you do all day.”
“I don’t do no devilry, sir.”
“Go on, Jack. I would be alone.”
“Now Master Crispin, don’t go doing that, sir. You’ll only upset your fever.”
“My fever is no business of yours. Go on!”
“Bless me. You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered, hanging back.
The death of him? The nerve. That boy was getting too big for his station.
Crispin returned to the Shambles and trudged up his stairs. He opened the door and looked around, scowling. This room, this single room above a tinker’s shop, seemed as barren as his soul. A simple table with a chair and a stool. A coffer, a bed, a bucket. He didn’t own any of it. Only the meager things stored in the coffer and perhaps a few of the clay pots and iron pans hanging by the tiny hearth. His scowl deepened and he kicked the stool closest to him. It clattered along the floor. He was lucky it hadn’t shattered, but what of it if it had? He’d just owe his landlord one more coin, one more day’s wage. Paltry wage. Sixpence. That was the wage of an archer, but at least they were clothed and fed along with their regular sixpence.
He slammed the door shut behind him and stalked to the hearth, leaning his arm on the wall over it, glaring at the smoky embers glowing under their mantle of ash. Sir Thomas sneered at the very idea of the knights who had gone to Spain. Sneered! What would Crispin have given if he could have gone?
Nine years ago, he had no idea how much he was throwing away. Oh, but he had learned just how much in the intervening years. How he had learned.
He sat hard on his bed, tallying the list. He knew it wasn’t healthy, always put him in a fouler mood and encouraged him to seek out a wine bowl in which to drown the memories, but he indulged anyway, couldn’t stop himself. All that he had lost. And then some.
And then the woman, Anabel. Her face rose up in his mind. A beautiful face. How a beautiful face could turn his head. She had a face any man would be pleased to wake beside. She had been betrothed to Roger Grey. There was a hint of desperation in her talk of him. She was quick to pronounce him a suicide. But why would she want that?
Round bold eyes, luscious mouth. He certainly didn’t mind picturing her. She was below Crispin’s station, though … at least the place he used to occupy. She seemed quick and spirited, traits he valued in women, but he knew he shouldn’t get too close. Only close enough to solve this riddle.
He always got too close and where did it get him?
He swore he wouldn’t do it, made oath after oath that he would never look at it again. But now that his humor was completely black, he got up, knelt by his bed, and reached under the straw-stuffed mattress. His heart gave a lurch as his fingers closed on the object and pulled it forth.
It lay in his palm, the small portrait. Framed in twisted golden wire, the figure on the painted surface looked up at him with seductive eyes and he slowly lowered to the bed, staring. How long had it been since he’d seen her in the flesh? How long had it been since he’d touched her, held her in his arms?
Her face was pale, lips small. Red-gold hair. And those eyes. Even as paint and ink those eyes seemed to know him. Lids beguilingly heavy as they were in truth, they seemed to say they had a secret. And indeed, she had many secrets.
He choked out a whispered “Philippa,” running a calloused finger down the painted face. Philippa Walcote was married, more than two years now by his reckoning. She had nothing to do with him any more than he had with her. That case had long ago been closed. He certainly had not laid eyes on her since she parted from these very walls. Yet the sound of her name and the face looking back at him still stirred something in him he did not wish to name. So long ago and there had been other women in between, perfunctory couplings, to be sure, but he could not escape that unmistakable feeling in his heart when thinking of her.
He clutched the portrait. Why did he keep the damned thing? Was it loneliness that made him covet it like a dragon over its treasure?
The fire in his hearth was low and glowed a dull red. Just toss it in! He’d only told himself that a thousand times, and a thousand times he had hesitated.
Standing, he moved toward the fire, alternating glaring at the flames and the portrait. He leaned an arm again on the wall above the hearth and stared hard at those slanted eyes looking mildly back at him. Regrets were for the grave. Philippa was lost to him. There was no going back. And no use in feeling sorry for himself.
After all, he was the one who had turned her away.
Unbidden, his mind filled with the face of Anabel Coterel again. He shook his head with a disgusted snort. “Don’t be more of a fool than you already are, Crispin.” Love was for poetry and courtly pursuits. Men on the Shambles were lucky to find a wench to wife. A sturdy maid to keep the house and bear the children, children to help the business, to leave one’s worldly goods to. It was a business proposition, and rightly so. Life was too hard on the Shambles to gamble on love. And it
wasn’t just the Shambles. A lord married off his daughters to other wealthy and noble lords to propagate the line. If they found love later they were lucky. After all, Lancaster had married twice, yet he still kept a mistress on the side. Was that love?
The portrait weighed heavy in his hand. His fingers rubbed over the surface, loosening as he held it poised over the fire.
A knock at the door startled him and, instinctively, he clutched the little frame. Hastily he stuffed it back under the mattress, went to the door, and opened it.
Crispin took a staggering step back.
In the doorway stood his old friend, Geoffrey Chaucer.
7
“G-GEOFFREY!”
Chaucer smiled. His eyes danced with the old fire of their schemes and folly. “May I come in?”
The flashing moment of recognition and happiness on seeing his friend again vanished instantly. Geoffrey was to see for himself how Crispin now lived. But there was nothing for it. He gritted his teeth and stepped aside.
To his credit, Geoffrey did not flinch, said nothing. No cutting remark as he was wont to make. He knew Crispin’s situation, had met him again only last year after almost eight years of exile. Crispin reminded himself that it was good to see the man again when by all rights he was not truly allowed to associate with him for fear of bringing down the wrath of the crown upon him.
Chaucer righted the stool and sat in it, resting his hands on his thighs. He wore a long gown with a few ornaments, a necklace, some rings, his jeweled dagger, the one Crispin had gifted to him over a decade ago. His eyes caught the glint of the family ring on Crispin’s finger.
“Surprised?” he said, mustache curled in a grin.
“Geoffrey!” Crispin was breathing hard. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous for you.”
He waved Crispin’s fears away with the careless flick of his hand. “Don’t vex yourself over it, Cris. I’ll be fine. I was in the parish so I thought I’d visit.”
Crispin frowned and slowly lowered to the chair opposite his friend. “Oh? I can’t imagine that this is the first time you’ve ever been to the Shambles. And you have never graced my door before this.”
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