The door whined wider for an instant before it closed with a solid thud.
Crispin waited. He knew Lancaster would need a moment to compose himself. With a racing heart, Crispin realized he needed a moment as well.
The arras was cast aside and Gaunt glowered down. “Get you and your miserable servant out of my sight!”
“Gladly, your grace. And what of my return?”
“Damn you, Crispin. Don’t you know when to surrender?”
He shuffled his feet. “The murders, my lord, of innocent children. They were found floating in the Thames. Defiled and mutilated. I cannot let it lie. I won’t.”
“Children? You never said anything about children. When? How?”
So now you ask. “I would have mentioned it before, my lord, but you seemed reluctant to talk to me.”
“And so I am. But this is a different matter. Children, you say?”
“Yes. Four since Michaelmas.”
“Four?” He seemed genuinely appalled. Crispin heartened. He knew he had won. “Why have I heard nothing of this?”
“I am . . . surprised you did not know.”
“These sheriffs keep their tongues cleaved to their mouths.” Lancaster stroked his mustache. His eyes wandered and landed on the tear-streaked Jack. “I suppose . . . you will need a way back in.”
Crispin stood before him, his hand still firmly pressed to Jack’s heaving shoulder as the boy tried to master his emotions.
“Perhaps,” said the duke, eyes toward the fire, “I shall send livery to you. Do you still reside . . . where you did before?”
Crispin snorted. The man could not even bring himself to say “the Shambles.” “Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Then we shall send it to you there. Handle it with care, Guest. You see how close the king is.”
“Indeed.”
“Then go. Take your boy and begone.” Crispin bowed and Jack followed suit, still trembling and sniffling. He reached the door when the duke called out to him. “Crispin,” he said. The hearth flared behind him, throwing his shadow across the floor toward the door as if it were fleeing. His voice met Crispin at the doorposts. “Be careful.”
He looked at Lancaster, thinking for not the first time that this might be the last instance he set eyes upon him. He bowed again. “Always, my lord.”
He opened the door a crack and looked out, wishing that the cressets were extinguished. Darkness would have helped. He pushed his hood up, pulled Jack’s up over his head, and yanked the dazed boy with him into the corridor.
He kept his head down, his cloak tight around him, and nearly dragged Jack through the long corridors. A guard stood at one archway but there was no one by the door of St. Stephen’s chapel. Since the way to the Great Hall was effectively blocked, he decided that the better part would be to go through the chapel and out the cloister.
They slipped in. The chapel was dark and only the merest moonlight shined on the tall, narrow bands of stained-glass windows in the apse. Stealing across the checkered floor, Crispin stumbled into the frozen form of Jack, stalled in the center of the nave.
When he looked down, he saw the boy’s eyes slowly rise up the tall columns to the vaulted ceiling with its painted stars, the rows of shields on either side, the jeweled stained glass giving color to the dark gray of the chapel. His shiny lips hung open, jaw slack as his gaze rose and rose. Though at any other instance Crispin might be pleased to give Jack a tour, now was definitely not the time.
He pushed at his shoulder. “Come along,” he whispered, just enough to urge the boy’s feet and set him to moving again.
They escaped into a passage between the cloister and the chapel that led to an outer door and they crept into the shadows of the gardens along the banks of the Thames until they reached a wall and climbed it to the outer courtyard. They walked brusquely to the main gate and down the lane toward Charing Cross. No one stopped them. No one questioned them. No one raised the alarm.
He remembered to breathe once they passed the Cross and he stood in the snow momentarily to regain his bearings. It was late. The curfew was now in force and the gates of London were surely locked tight for the night. But this did not trouble him. He knew ways around that.
“Do we have to return to the palace, Master?”
He looked down at the boy. His voice was a pitiful murmur of sniffling and whimpering. “Yes, Jack. At least I do. If it frightens you too much, I will not demand it.”
The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve several times and peered up sorrowfully. His lashes glistened in the pale moonlight. “You can’t go alone.”
“I have been alone a long time, Jack. Never fear.”
“But . . . what if you’re caught? I’d never find out until it was far too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“For me to rescue you!”
A warm sensation bubbling in his chest surprised him, and he smiled at Jack’s sincerity. “That may be so,” he said gently. “Then perhaps, if you will, you should come along to keep watch over me.”
Jack sighed heavily with the exasperation of the put upon. “I think I’d better, then. I’d never forgive m’self if something happened to you, sir.”
Crispin clutched the boy’s shoulder affectionately before dropping it away. He filled his lungs with cold air.
The curtain of clouds above had opened, revealing a painfully clear night of tight stars and black sky, reminding him a little of St. Stephen’s vaulted ceiling. The recent snow dampened the sounds, if sounds there were, for most of Westminster had gone to their beds. The Thames lapped the stony banks, and boats rose and fell with creaks and groans, but all was still.
They began their long walk home back down the Strand.
After a time, Jack raised his head. Beneath his hood, his cloud of breath lifted into the night. “Master, why does France have Jews and England does not?”
“A fair question, Jack. How am I to answer it simply? Our King Edward I exiled them from England.”
“Why?”
“Because of usury and other despicable acts.”
“Oh.” Silence for a time, until . . . “What’s usury?”
“Money lending at interest.”
“What’s int—?”
“Paying a fee for taking a loan.”
“Why would—?”
“Jack, just understand that it caused a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh.” A pause. “But that physician seems like a kind man.” His brows furrowed at that, as if not quite believing his own words. “Though I ain’t saying the same for his dog of a son.” His face was more at ease at this justified sentiment. “Yet the father seems fair enough. Maybe it ain’t all Jews what caused the trouble.”
Crispin said nothing. How to explain to the boy that men deceive, even the ones who seem benign? And yet . . . He relied on his gut instincts to carry him through many a difficult situation. And his gut told him that Jacob was the man he seemed to be. Jack’s innocent assertion was more pointed than the boy could have imagined. Crispin had dealt with Jews before in the Holy Land. Suspicious merchants and obsequious money lenders. He had naturally seen them in France in Avignon, as there they were free to do what they liked. He had assumed they were all as he imagined, all he had been taught.
He didn’t like the direction his thoughts were taking. He preferred, instead, to cast his thoughts on the murderous Julian, for it was easier to find evil in that narrow-eyed youth. He was more like the Jew he pictured in his mind’s eye. That lad was the one Crispin could not trust. His wounded arm throbbed with the thinking of it.
The quiet settled around them as they trudged back to London. The soft sounds of ice crunched beneath their boots. They passed Temple Bar and headed up Fleet Street before they could make the turn northward. They’d have to enter London by Newgate, and though Crispin hated to do it, he knew it was the only—
Wait. What was that?
He halted and reached out to grasp Jack’s cloak and pulled him
to a stop.
Jack didn’t speak, only looked up from his shadowing hood, puzzled. Crispin held up a hand for him to listen. They both did, cocking their heads.
A steady thud coming their way. Hard, heavy footfalls. The Watch? Perhaps a man carrying a heavy burden. That would certainly have slowed his steps. Or it could be someone injured . . .
The chill at the familiar sound rumbled up his core. It sounded like . . .
Out of the shadows emerged a large figure. Jack gasped and Crispin froze, staring. The figure stopped where it was, standing between two close buildings. A narrow band of moonlight limned one edge of the hulking man but not enough to reveal his face. He had unnaturally wide shoulders and a seemingly small head.
They stood staring at one another for several heartbeats, little more than a stone’s throw apart.
All at once, the man turned and slipped quickly back into the shadows.
It seemed to break the spell and Crispin took off at a run. But when he got to the spot the man had stood, there was no sign of him at all.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The lonely sound only enhanced the isolated feeling of the empty street.
Jack was behind Crispin clutching his cloak. “Where’d he go?” His voice was breathless.
“I don’t know.”
“Was it . . . was it the same man from before?”
“It . . . might have been.” Crispin truly wasn’t certain.
“God blind me!”
And if it were, what did it mean? Crispin peered deep into the shadows, willing his ears to hear any faraway footsteps, anything that could yield a clue. He barely noticed Jack dropping to his knees into the shadowy snow.
The lad scrabbled about and gasped. Crispin could not see in the dim light what he was up to, but he could detect the boy trembling.
“What is it, Jack?” The boy didn’t answer right away but he had something in his hand. He leaned over him, trying to see. “Jack? What is it? What have you found?”
Slowly, he rose. He was looking into his hand. In the darkness, Crispin tried to make it out. Was it a stone?
Jack was still trembling. “Holy Mother protect us,” he whispered. He lifted his hand for Crispin to see but the dim light made it impossible. “M-master,” he said.
“What is it, Jack?” He grasped the boy’s hand and yanked it higher.
“See, Master Crispin. Clay!”
7
Impossible. Yet hadn’t Crispin witnessed many impossible things in the last few years? Was this not merely one more?
This was madness. There was a perfectly logical explanation for the presence of clay. His mind was simply having difficulty coming up with a plausible reason. He motioned for Jack to clean the clay from his hands.
“It’s the Golem!” rasped Jack, voicing both their thoughts and pushing his soiled palms down his cloak. “Holy Mother of God!” He began a litany of poorly mouthed prayers.
“It is no such thing!” Crispin blew a cloudy breath, one hand on his dagger hilt, the other holding his cloak closed. He peered again into the darkness, up the street and down. If he had not seen the man for himself, Crispin wouldn’t have believed he had been there. Except for those droplets of clay upon the snow like blood. That damnable clay.
“Let us get back to London, Jack. We need our beds.”
He pressed ahead but Jack still shivered in the snow, looking behind.
“Jack! JACK!”
A flicker of light sputtered to life in a window and its shutter opened a crack. Crispin grabbed Jack by his hood and dragged him into the shadows. A figure leaned out of the window and looked about before shivering and shutting it again.
“Come along!” he whispered.
He tramped heavily over the crunchy snow. After a time he no longer had need to drag Jack. The boy cleaved tight to him and they walked within the same shadow under the disappearing moonlight.
When they reached London’s walls they headed north to Newgate. Jack cringed on seeing the rigid towers crawl up into the sky, frost gleaming in pale patches across its stony surface. “Master Crispin! We ain’t going in there, are we?”
“It is the only gate I am certain to be able to pass through.”
“But can we pass out of it again?”
A good question. One he did not wish to ponder.
Without thinking further on it, Crispin raised his hand and knocked on the heavy wooden door. After waiting an interval he knocked again. This time he heard footfalls and a small door opened in the larger iron-clad portal. A man, face dented from sleep and wearing a skewed leather cap over scruffy hair, squinted at him. He held a clay oil lamp and pushed it forward. “Mary’s blessed veil,” he swore. “Master Crispin? What would you be doing here this time of night? And on the other side of the gate?”
“Trying to get in,” he answered curtly.
The man shook his head. “The sheriffs have gone home, Master. They wouldn’t like being sent a message at this hour.”
“I do not need to speak to either sheriff. I merely have need to pass through to London.”
The man scowled. “It’s past curfew.” But Crispin was ready with a farthing. The man’s face brightened when he saw the disk in his lamplight. “Aw now! Maybe it ain’t so far past!” His dirty fingers closed over the coin and snatched it from Crispin’s hand. With a mocking bow, he stepped aside. “Right this way, Master.”
Crispin urged Jack in ahead of him. He stumbled over the stone threshold. Crispin took the lead after that, trying not to think of what lay above him in the towers or below in the murky cells.
They reached the London side in a matter of moments. There, the sleepy porter gave Crispin a cursory glance before he grunted to his feet. “It’s past curfew,” he muttered.
“I know,” said Crispin. He waited while the man seemed to sample almost every key on his ring before opening the small door. “Mind the Watch,” cautioned the porter and gestured into the black hole.
Crispin looked and saw no one along the dark avenue. No lantern that would indicate the Watch, no footsteps, and definitely no hulking figures.
Jack poked his head out and looked, too, likely wondering the same thing.
Crispin motioned him to follow and they hurried through the battered snow down Newgate Market to the Shambles.
Once home, Jack stoked the fire until they were warmed through, then he banked it and they settled down for the night, but a disturbed sleep followed. When morning finally crept into the small room with gray light, Crispin rubbed the exhaustion from his crusty eyes. A quick glance into the straw-piled corner told him that Jack was not there. Where did that boy go? he wondered. A kettle hanging over the fire bubbled with something smelling like food and he threw his legs over the side of the bed and curled the blanket over his shoulders to lean toward the hearth and peer into the pot.
Turnip porridge. He cursed and rose, reaching for the spoon and the wooden bowl that was waiting for him by the hearth. He tipped the damnable porridge into it, blew on it, letting the steam warm his face, before he took a tentative sip. Awful. He downed it quickly.
Crispin heated some water for his shave and quickly finished his toilet, thinking all the while how he was to approach asking his questions at court.
With these murders somehow tied to those missing parchments, they seemed to be beyond his ability to solve. He knew from past experience that without reliable witnesses, murders often passed without justice. A murder in a parish happened when two angry individuals fought. Or one party tried to cheat the other, or some other misfortune that was well known to all the inhabitants. It was easy for someone to point the finger on well-known circumstances.
But the secret murder of children . . . This had gone unremarked for months! If witnesses there were, they were silent on it. Perhaps they lived in fear of retribution. Or had to protect someone.
This theft, on the other hand. Now this was something else, something Crispin could possibly sink his teeth into. A man invariably boas
ted about the thing he stole, giving himself away. But even if the thief did not boast, someone surely noted that another party was in possession of such a thing. A servant, perhaps? Yes, he would have to find servants and speak with them. And if indeed this theft was tied to murder then he would nab the miscreant himself.
Crispin waited impatiently for either Jack’s arrival or the servant from Lancaster. But when neither made an appearance by late morning, he grabbed his cloak and headed out. He could still talk to someone who might have seen something down by the river, someone he had missed before.
He trod quickly down the narrow stair and walked out onto the muddy street, heading toward Westminster.
He pulled his cloak closer. Damn but it was cold! Saint Nicholas’ Feast was close and that meant that another Christmas would come and go. Another solitary Christmas. Gilbert and Eleanor had asked him on more than one occasion to celebrate a humble Christmas dinner with them at the Boar’s Tusk. He had always declined. The memories were too dear of warm feasts in the company of his fellow barons and lords. The Yule log would burn bright and hot in those impossibly large braziers set all about the Great Hall in Westminster. The warmth and camaraderie would keep the winter at bay. Roasted boar’s heads would be served to one and all, along with cheese pies, pasties dripping with gravy, loaves of warm, white bread. Bittern and quail swimming in rich broth. And puddings with Spanish raisins along with honeyed cakes.
He was certain the fare that Gilbert and Eleanor served would be delicious. But it would be small portions of goose and cheese and perhaps coarse bread and a crumb pudding along with their sharp tavern wine, never tasting quite as good as he recalled from casks he had enjoyed from Gasconne.
No. He could not bring himself to go.
It began to snow. Not gentle, lacy flakes, but melting blobs of ice, smacking his cheek like a challenge from an opponent. He almost missed the carriage as it lumbered along the road in the opposite direction. A fine draft horse, a driver, the flaps secured tight on the windows to the barrel-shaped conveyance. Just another rich lord or lady taking a shortcut down Newgate Market.
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