For the years Crispin had known him, John seemed to be a merry fellow. John had helped Crispin when he had first come to the Shambles, showed him how to stay alive on the streets, where the best almshouses could be found for food, prevented him from losing his way. He had never tried his wiles on Crispin except for his occasional seductive banter. Crispin felt slightly ashamed that he had done little to return John’s charity and instead offered the man scorn. It seemed ungrateful, but it was always difficult for Crispin to reconcile John’s kindness with his predilection for dressing as he did and laying with men.
But now John’s usual merry demeanor seemed swallowed by his thoughts.
Rykener settled on his stool and never looked at his friend as he spoke. “When I was a child,” he said softly, “I adored my mother’s things. Her gowns, her veils. I wanted so much to wear them. I knew such thoughts were wrong, but I would steal away from my chores to merely touch them. But it wasn’t until I was a lad of thirteen. I was working in Madam Elizabeth Bronderer’s stew as a scullion when she dressed me in women’s clothes for the first time. It was a scheme of hers, but . . .” A look of bliss passed over his face. “Ah Crispin, it was wonderful,” he said at last. “I was no longer a scullion after that.”
“A woman’s gown is one thing. But playing the mare—”
“I tried, Crispin,” he said wearily. “Truly, I tried. Madam Bronderer had me lay with women, too. But . . .” He shook his head. “A wife and children at my knee. What man does not want these things? And yet . . .” He rubbed his arms absently. “Have I not prayed enough, done enough penance? Even as a child I denied myself food and drink in recompense for my sinful thoughts. Even Madam Bronderer would admonish her ‘girls,’ as she called us, to pray. But there was never any joy with women. Only with men. Why should that be so? Alas. I continue to sin. And pray. I do not know which is the stronger.”
Crispin shrugged. “I know not either, John. We each have our burdens.”
“Yes, that is so.” He sniffed and clapped his thighs with his hands. “Well, did I answer your question, at least?”
The discomfort returned. “Erm . . . I suppose.”
John smiled. “I wish I could be more like you, Crispin. You’re very brave.”
In the face of it, Crispin was beginning to think that this wasn’t quite true.
“I have shared my tale with you. Now you must tell me why you ask, Crispin. Come now.”
“There were murders, John,” he said carefully. “Vile murders of boys. And they were . . . sodomized.”
John dragged his cloak from the floor and pulled it about him. “Oh.” He rose and leaned over the small hearth. His face, usually so pliable, seemed to harden before Crispin’s eyes. “And so you come to me. Do you accuse me, then? I am a man who indulges in the pleasure of other men so I must be a defiler of boys as well, is that it? Am I also a murderer?”
It was the furthest thing from his thoughts and yet his thoughts had been so jumbled he hadn’t quite known what he said. He had never seen Rykener so angry before. He slowly stood. “I am not accusing you, John. That was not my intention. Forgive me if I have offended you.”
John knotted the cloak at his throat with a fist. “It is a vile thing to call me, Crispin. I thought better of you. And here I have shared what little wine I have. Perhaps . . . perhaps you should leave now.”
What was there to say? Crispin moved uncertainly.
John sighed and tapped a foot, trying unsuccessfully to avoid catching Crispin’s gaze. Finally he rolled his eyes and waved at the room. “Don’t be absurd.” He blinked at him to show his hurt and Crispin did feel genuine remorse.
At last, John sat again and adjusted his cloak and shift over his legs, rubbing them for warmth. Crispin returned to his stool. “I don’t lie with boys,” said John harshly. “I lie with men. Especially priests. They’re more profitable.”
“John! God’s blood! Will you be serious!” But at least he seemed to have forgiven him.
“I am serious!” he said, his demeanor changing again to the merry soul Crispin remembered. “For it was they who told me what a grave sinner I was . . . before they dropped to their knees before me. The hypocrites.”
Crispin cringed. The man loved to taunt him with such tales. Could any of them be true? He conceded that they could be.
“But despite your misstep,” John went on, “I can see you are greatly troubled. So I shall try to speak plainly to you.” He cleared his throat and took on the look of some of the preachers Crispin had seen near pilgrim sites. “Though there are some men who seek out boys, I do not truck with them. They are . . . vile. Twisted.” Crispin gave him a look and John wagged a finger at him. “I know what goes on behind your eyes, Crispin Guest. But I am not vile or twisted. I am a gentle soul, as you well know. I do not seek to hurt. My weakness is for grown men, not boys. This damns me as it is. Have I not been threatened with terrible tortures by the sheriff? I am condemned enough when caught in women’s clothes. The fines! Last time I spent a month in Newgate.” Crispin refrained from telling him “I told you so.” “But that is no matter. The truth of it is, I have no interest in children. None of my fellow whores do. Perhaps you do not see the difference, but I do. If I were of the sort who violated children, then I should be obliged to hurl myself from the highest tower.”
Crispin grunted in reply. Perhaps there was a difference. Perhaps not. Such things were difficult to fathom. Especially in the face of his own strange situation.
“I have been told there are secret stews of boys,” Crispin went on, staring into the fire.
“Vile panderers,” said John, swiping his hand absently across his knee. “I have heard of them. To use these boys . . .” He shook his head and seemed to be genuinely appalled. It relieved Crispin. He had always liked Rykener. Though he did not approve of his doings or his choice of laymen, he had seen beyond the women’s clothes to the man beneath. Rykener’s petite features did not belong on a man, nor did those slanted and all-knowing eyes. But he wasn’t a bad sort, even with his insistence at being called Eleanor.
They both fell silent. After a time John ticked his head and turned to face Crispin. “You mentioned murder.”
“Yes. Horrific. Four boys in the same way.”
“Why murdered?”
He shook his head. “I do not know. To hide their crimes against these children perhaps. But there is more. I—” He recalled that John was not a man to enjoy blood. “I am reluctant to share the details with you. It is not . . . pleasant.”
The man wrinkled his nose. “Then don’t. I’d rather not know.” He offered Crispin the jug again and he took it. “But if there is more of a violent nature involved”—he tilted his head to verify it and Crispin confirmed with a gesture—“then it seems that perhaps this is less about the sodomizing of boys and more about murder. Perhaps if you reason the why you can reckon the who.”
“Yes. Very astute of you, Master Rykener. I thought I knew the who and then . . .” He felt his face heat again and he took another swallow of wine to hide it. But John was more astute than he would have liked. The man’s gaze stuck to him steadfast.
“The who was not the murderer?”
“No. Well, at least I do not think so. I mean—dammit.” He clamped his mouth shut before he condemned himself further.
John shook his head with a chuckle. “Crispin, I have never seen you this discomfited. Verily, you are the most unflappable man I know. And yet something seems to have, well, flapped you. These murders are horrible, yes. But I do not think it is that.”
“Leave it alone, John.”
“Oh now! You know that is an impossibility.” He scooted his stool closer to Crispin until their knees nearly touched. “Now then, Master Guest. You will tell me what has happened to bring such a faint glow to your cheek. Come now. Out with it!”
“No, I—” He reached for the jug but John snatched it from his hand.
“No more, Master Guest. Tell me and I shall see if you are
deserving.”
Crispin used his harshest glare but it did no good against the gleeful expression of his companion, all former rancor forgotten.
Very well. Get it over with. Like scratching off a scab.
He positioned himself to fully face Rykener and dug his fist in his thighs. “A young man kissed me. And I liked it.”
The jug crashed to the floor. It took several moments for the gape-mouthed John to realize he had dropped it and he jumped to his feet to retrieve the shards.
Crispin morosely watched the spreading wine puddle. After all was said and done, he felt he truly deserved that wine.
John tossed the shards into the fire. “Bless me!” he gasped, searching for a rag to mop up the wine. “Bless me, bless me. I never expected you to say that!” He stole a glance at Crispin and couldn’t seem to help a small smile. “I wish I had been there to see that. Better, I wish it had been me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” The blush to his face only grew more furiously warm. He threw himself from the stool and tried to pace in the small room.
On his knees and sopping up the mess, John sighed. “Alas. He is fairer than me, then?”
“No, he is—I am not having this conversation!”
“He is young. Is that it? Is that why you ask about boys? Do you worry you will be wanting—”
“God’s blood, John! No! A thousand times NO!”
“Then what? It was a kiss. A little kiss. It took you off guard. Perhaps you were a bit in your cups. Perhaps he reminded you a bit of a woman. You lost your head. It means nought.”
Could it have been those things? Crispin grasped at the notion. Grasped so hard he’d throttle the notion to death.
John tossed the rag to a corner and Crispin was reminded briefly of the bloody rags he had seen in Julian’s rooms. There was so much yet to be explained. Was the boy entirely innocent? His experiments, his notes. Dammit, but the boy was clever in his distractions! Did Crispin truly believe him about the astrologer? He certainly could have made that up.
John found another jug and brought it forth. “Ale,” he said, raising it. “I have a feeling we are not done drinking, you and I.” He raised his chin and drank a heavy dose, his knobbed throat rolling with several swallows. Crispin watched him for a moment until—
“My God! John!”
The jug was pulled away and John stared, swallowing before he choked. “What now?” he rasped, trying to clear his throat.
“Julian,” he said wonderingly. “I’ll be damned.” He clutched his friend’s shoulder. “I thank you for your hospitality, John. But I must take my leave.”
“What? But you haven’t finished your story! I want to hear about this kiss—”
“Later. For now, I must return to Westminster. There is something I must do.”
John stomped his foot. “You are the most maddening man I have ever met, Crispin Guest!”
Crispin smiled. For the first time, he was feeling much better. “And you are a good friend, John. God keep you.”
“He always does,” he sighed, reluctantly allowing Crispin to leave.
Crispin hurried, anxious to test his theory. But he did not make it more than a few paces from Rykener’s lodgings when someone familiar passed him on the other side of the lane. The mist, as always, grumbled along the way and made even close objects difficult to discern, but there was little mistaking Matthew Middleton, the goldsmith.
The Jew.
Crispin watched him hurry along under the eaves, trying to escape the lashing of wet snow sloppily winging on the wind. His furtive movements and the unmistakable glances over his shoulder urged Crispin to cast aside his earlier quest. Westminster could wait. His instincts told him to follow.
If Middleton was trying to be subtle, he was making a poor job of it. He seemed clearly too distracted to hide his movements. He bumped absentmindedly into the whores and thieves making their way to shelter in the dim afternoon. Whatever his mission, he seemed to know where he was going, for he never veered from a direct path before him, never stopping to assess the way. He knew it.
The Jew soon followed along the Bank and took the strip of mud overlooking the Thames, heading for the territory of the potter’s kilns.
There were few along the same path but Crispin managed to pace himself behind a cart, following in its shadow even as Middleton glanced quickly over his shoulder. He had not seen Crispin, and with a hand on his sheathed dagger, Crispin hurried away from the cart to slide into the darkness of an alley, peeking out to watch Middleton disappear into the potter’s village of kilns and hovels. Moving slowly after the man, he kept his distance and watched his quarry stride down the row. He passed Dickon’s hovel and picked over the muddy way, until he reached a familiar hut.
Crispin hung back, keeping his back against a wooden post upholding a rickety canopy. Middleton knocked at the door of Berthildus the Potter and waited until someone answered. When she appeared in the doorway, her face bloomed into shock. She looked urgently both ways down the busy avenue before pulling him inside.
Crispin moved. He was under her window in an instant.
“—did you come here?” he heard her say. “That was foolish, especially in the daytime.”
“No one suspects,” he said, exasperated. “Don’t be a fool.”
“They had best not! What would I do if they made me to go to the Domus? Who could live off the pittance the king supplies those poor sots?”
“One wonders if the king truly wishes to support his converts or to starve them.”
“Aye. I do not wish to see for myself.”
“I did not come to talk to you of this.” Crispin heard the man’s shuffled step move closer to her and his voice dropped. “I came to talk to you of . . . Odo.”
“Not him again! Why must it be me?”
“I’ve told you before, Berthildus. There is no one left of our people here. It must be you.”
“I can’t control him anymore than you can.”
“But you must. That Tracker has been sniffing about.”
“Tracker? I ain’t seen no Tracker.”
“He’s been asking things. You must keep an eye on Odo.”
“He’s his own man, as you well know.”
“But he has been to the northbank. To Westminster.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“There was trouble. Tell him he must stop whatever it is he is doing or it will be the ruin of us all.”
There was silence for a moment. Crispin listened hard before he heard the door creak open. He scrambled to the other side of the hut and pressed against the wall.
“I’m counting on you, Berthildus. We all are. Here. I know it has been difficult for you with Hugh away.”
There was the soft clink of coins exchanging hands.
“God grant that he returns soon,” she said.
“Yes. God keep you.” His slushy steps moved away and Crispin waited, wondering if he should question Berthildus, if anything could be gained by it. Clearly he had prodded a nerve when questioning the Jews in London. But who was this Odo and why did they both seem to fear him? Something clicked in Crispin’s head, and he thought he might just know this Odo after all.
“Master Guest.”
Crispin whipped around. Blindsided, he stared into the face of the stranger from the carriage.
“I hoped I would see you again,” said the man. And before he could answer, a fist snapped hard into Crispin’s face. Stars exploded in his vision and he fell to his knees, blood rushing down his nose and over his lips. The taste of copper flooded his mouth.
A shadow glided over him. Crispin looked up blearily into the face of the carriage driver.
The man looked down at Crispin, drew back his arm, and finished the job.
15
Crispin knew he had been dragged away. He just wasn’t certain by whom or where he had landed. The blow had not knocked him out completely. There had been vague images of alleys, ditches, and people, but he had been p
owerless to make any resistance. Instead, he had hung lifeless in their arms and dragged a long way.
He felt cold damp under his back when he was roused enough to care. His face hurt and his mouth was sticky from drying blood.
Raising a hand to his face, he heard the stirring in the dark room. Someone moved across the floor. He turned his head in time to see a boot jabbing toward him. A soundless cry opened his mouth as the boot sunk into the flesh between his ribs, not hard enough to break bones but enough to garner his attention.
Breathing became the first priority.
The thickened voice above him gave a mirthless chuckle. “That is for stabbing me. A man, after all, must know his place.”
Gasping seemed to work. Coughing ached his already bruised ribs so he tried to avoid it. Wrenching open his eyes, Crispin glared at the silhouette above him. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he rasped, adding with vinegar, “your Excellency.”
That seemed to satisfy the man, and he drew back, enough to show Crispin he wouldn’t kick him again. For the moment.
Slowly, Crispin rolled to his side and gingerly pushed himself upright, wary that the man would lash out at him again. Once he was standing, his eyes quickly took in his dim surroundings. A stable. Disused by the look of it. There was straw under his feet and the stench of moldy hay permeating the air. A place whose walls might well swallow his cries. But when his hand brushed against his scabbard, he was surprised to feel the knife still there.
“You have my attention,” he said guardedly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Where was that damned driver? “What is it you want of me now?”
“I was very disappointed with our last encounter, Master Guest. Very disappointed. When I encouraged you to continue your investigations, I did not intend for you to follow me. That was very . . . discourteous.”
Crispin made an abbreviated bow in apology, but never said the words. “I cannot help, your Excellency, if my investigation led me to you.”
“Nonsense. Your insatiable curiosity led you to follow me. I’ve no doubt that this will someday be your downfall.”
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