A Maiden Weeping

by Jeri Westerson

  Eleanor appeared in the back nearest the kitchens, but she was scurrying about, pushing loosened strands of her ash blonde hair away from her face and vainly trying to tuck it back up under her kerchief. She was talking hurriedly to a new servant girl, and Jack stretched his long torso over the crowd to get a good look at her.

  A pretty thing. Young, younger than Jack maybe. Long auburn hair, a small mouth, round, pink cheeks. He’d have to find a moment to talk to her … Oh what was he thinking! Priorities, Jack. Master Crispin first, dalliance later.

  His eyes continued to track about the room as his mind whirred on the many problems ahead of him. If only he had help. Who could help? Who knew enough about it all? Certainly no one he knew. He sat up sharply. The duke! If he could get a message … no. As far as he knew, the Duke of Lancaster was still in Spain. What about his son Henry? No, no. Jack had caused a great deal of trouble to the Earl of Derby a year ago. He wasn’t likely to forget it and, in any case, he had his own troubles to contend with. The king had been acting as if he was sitting on ants for the past two years, and in the spring he had finally declared he was done with those lords peering over his shoulder – and one of them was Henry. Richard was king and that was that! Henry had to watch his step if he wanted to stay on the good side of his cousin from now on.

  Thoughts of the king made him think of Queen Anne. He had performed a mighty service for her and, in her gratitude, she had saved Jack’s life. Might he send a message to her for succor? But no. One could not rely on the beneficence of the nobility. In all likelihood, she had forgotten all about him by now.

  He ran his hand through his ginger locks. What else could he do?

  Just as he was about to hail Eleanor himself, Jack spotted a familiar face amongst many. There, just near the door and hoisting a horn cup, was the manciple Thomas Clarke. He hadn’t seen him since … when was it? Three, four years ago?

  Jack jolted up and shot between the tables, shoving his way past crowded men hunched over their drinks.

  ‘Master Clarke!’ he said, standing over the man.

  Clarke turned, cup still in hand, and looked Jack over without recognition. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me,’ said Jack, pounding his chest. ‘Jack Tucker. Remember? From Canterbury.’ He leaned in and whispered, ‘When St Thomas’s bones went missing?’

  Eyes widening, Thomas Clarke smiled. ‘Young Jack Tucker! But look at you, man! When I saw you last, you were a mere slip of a boy. And now you’re fully grown.’

  Jack felt a hot blush to his cheeks. ‘A few years to go, good sir. But it is God’s grace smiling down upon me, making me tall. Bless my soul. You’re just the man I need in this dread hour.’

  ‘Dread hour? Come, Tucker. Come sit beside me.’

  Jack plopped down on the stool and jostled closer to the table.

  ‘Will you have ale?’ Thomas poured into another bowl sitting on the table and handed it to Jack.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I am parched.’ Jack tipped it up and swallowed one dose after another till it was nearly gone. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Bless me, the sight of you does my soul good.’

  Thomas looked no different from when Jack had seen him in Canterbury all those years ago. He was young, though older than Jack. Like a student, though he was a procurer of provisions for his charges. His brown hair draped over the chaperon hood lying folded on his shoulders. His straight nose and small eyes studied Jack with care.

  ‘Tell me what ails you. Are you still apprentice to that Tracker. Er … Crispin … something.’

  ‘Crispin Guest, good master. And I am. And a great and gracious master he is. But I am afraid he is in peril.’ He gulped down the rest of his ale, and Thomas solemnly poured more. Jack saluted with the cup and drank again. ‘My master was on an errand of mercy last night.’ He got in close and kept his voice low. Thomas bowed his head toward Jack to listen. ‘A man mistook him for an assassin in this very place. Paid him good money to murder a woman.’

  Horrified, Thomas drew back. ‘God have mercy,’ he muttered, crossing himself.

  ‘Aye. So my master went to tell the lady, to warn her and, well. One thing or another, he, erm, fell asleep. And when he awoke the next morning, she was dead. Strangled.’

  ‘Blessed Saint Ives! What happened then?’

  ‘Well! My master was seen by witnesses. They’ve arrested him for the crime!’

  ‘I see. He … isn’t guilty then?’

  Jack scrambled to his feet and drew his dagger. ‘Of course not! And I’ll slay anyone who says he is!’

  Thomas swallowed and looked about nervously. Other patrons cast an eye toward Jack’s posturing, no doubt wondering if an altercation was about to break out. ‘Peace, Master Tucker. I only asked what any man would.’

  Jack frowned, looked at his dagger, and sheathed it smartly. Slowly, he regained his seat and pulled it up again to the table. ‘I … I apologize, Master Clarke. I might be a bit … touchy … where my master is concerned.’

  ‘And rightly so. You’re a good and honest lad.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Clarke. You see, I am at my wit’s end. For my master and I were investigating the murder to find the true culprit, but the sheriffs went and took my master. I must help him, Master Clarke, by finding the culprit. But I fear they will try him before I can.’

  ‘Hmm. What you need, my lad, is a lawyer.’

  Jack brightened. ‘Ah. And that’s where you come in, sir. Are you still a manciple for law students?’

  ‘Indeed. And I think I know just the man. Come with me.’

  Jack stood. ‘Where to, sir?’

  ‘To just outside London, to Gray’s Inn.’

  It was a long and crowded walk from Gutter Lane to Holburn, but it thinned as they left London proper. Only carts with tall beds of hay rolled along the rutted lane, with the occasional rider on a horse trotting through to split the monotony of the open road. A shepherd with a flock of muddy sheep stood off at a distance, staring at Jack and Thomas on the green plain once shops and houses had dwindled. He kept staring as if to plead for … something. Jack stared back as he and his companion turned down Chauncler Lane and found a row of three-story structures, limed-daub hatched with dark timbers too numerous to count. New construction was being added to the old and followed along with the same design. Workers hoisted wet daub on mortar boards, while others moved up ladders with solid wooden beams balancing on their shoulders. Sawing and hammering of pegs into holes echoed across the nearly empty plain surrounding the inn’s buildings.

  Law students and the lawyers who taught them leased out the majority of the inn, for the law was not to be taught inside London’s precincts since old King Henry III had declared it so.

  ‘We’ll go this way,’ Thomas was saying, as Jack took it all in, turning to watch the laborers call to one another. They tramped up a gravel walk that turned to flagged stone until they came to a portico with an arched door. Thomas took a ring of keys from his belt, chose one, and unlocked it. Entering into the shadows, Jack followed, eyes wide and fingers near his dagger.

  Thomas’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘You needn’t worry, Master Tucker.’ He gestured with the nod of his head toward Jack’s weapon hanging near his right hip. ‘This is my domain. There are no enemies here, save the students in the heat of an argument.’ He chuckled. Jack relaxed and his hand fell away. The entry alcove opened up to a cozy room with glass panes covering the window in a diamond pattern. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating motes of dust that fell onto the tawny spines of books on shelves. A tall desk, a chair, a small fireplace, scrolls, inkpots, crates, rough sacks full of God-knew-what.

  ‘This is where I do my work, Master Tucker.’

  Jack nodded. He didn’t know the contents of the books, but what wouldn’t Master Crispin give to have a few of them? He had spent precious coin on a book of Aristotle. A small thing but prized. He often read from it when at his ease late at night. Sometimes he’d read aloud to Jack.

  �
�Let us see if there are any still in the hall.’ Thomas passed through an arched doorway and to a passage that led to a wide hall. The hammerbeam ceiling rose up three stories, with clerestory windows along walls on opposite sides. The room was bright and warm and still filled with students and lawyers, eating together as servants hustled from one table to the next.

  At the smell of the food, Jack’s belly growled. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.

  He hoped Thomas hadn’t noticed, but the sharp-eyed manciple gave him a glance. ‘I could eat a bite. Could you, Master Tucker?’

  ‘Well … if it’s the custom …’

  He sat Jack down, poured him a cup of ale, and pushed a platter with a broken round of bread toward him. ‘I will get a servant to bring you meat and pottage.’

  ‘I thank you, Master Clarke.’

  The man scurried off. Jack reached for the loaf, tore off a hunk, and stuffed it in his mouth. It was then that he noticed a young man, little older than himself, sitting across the table and staring at him. The man chewed for a moment before he leaned his forearms on the table. His pottage bowl was nearly empty with the dregs of his soup and he was eating a bit of roasted leek. He pushed the pottage bowl toward Jack.

  ‘I’m done. You can have the rest.’

  ‘Oh. That is kind of you, sir.’ Jack took it and slurped up the last, licking his lips. He took another piece of bread and sopped up the rest.

  ‘You can’t be a student here, can you?’

  Jack’s face reddened. No doubt he heard Jack’s low London accent. No matter how hard he tried, he could not sound like Master Crispin. He had bowed to it long ago, but it did make it hard, sometimes, for him to investigate on his own when lordly people took him for a lowly servant and not the apprentice he was. ‘Er … no, good sir. I am here at the courtesy of your manciple, Thomas Clarke.’

  ‘So I saw. He called you ‘Tucker.’’

  ‘Aye. I mean, yes. M-my name is Jack Tucker. I am apprentice to the Tracker of London.’

  ‘Tracker? Bless me, I’ve heard of that wily fellow. Indicted for treason, wasn’t he? Got off with a slap, I daresay. Not the judgment he could have had. He’s got angels smiling down on him, I’ll warrant. Or devils smiling up.’

  Jack bristled but held his tongue. After all, he did not know who these men were or what rank. At any rate, they were all likely far above him. ‘He is a fair and generous master, sir, is Crispin Guest. My mentor in all things. And I thank the Almighty every day that he was spared that ignoble torment.’

  ‘Well said … from his apprentice. But harken. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I simply speak what’s on my mind, I’m afraid. We are taught to think quickly, to recall codes of law, to defend our clients as craftily as we can … just within the thin border of the law, mind you. I admire your master. He took the sow’s ear he was given and crafted a silk purse. And I say amen to that!’

  ‘In that case.’ Jack lifted his cup. ‘Good health to you, sir.’

  The man raised his cup. ‘And to you, Master Tucker.’ They both drank. The man wiped his mouth with the hem of the tablecloth. ‘Where are my manners? I know your name but you do not know mine. I am Nigellus Cobmartin, newly certified barrister for the Common Pleas. I just tried my first case yesterday.’ He beamed. His short, blunt nose and cheeks were red, and his gray eyes sparkled. Mousy brown hair neatly combed hung on either side of his clean-shaven face.

  ‘Did you win?’

  Nigellus glared down at the melted butter on a wooden plate before him and stirred what was left of his leek in it. ‘No. But almost.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jack sat back. ‘What … what sort of case was it?’

  ‘Best not to dwell.’ He becrossed himself and Jack, thinking it couldn’t hurt, did so as well.

  Nigellus looked up suddenly. ‘And why are you here, Master Tucker? Are you investigating for your Tracker master?’

  ‘Yes … and no. I am investigating but …’ He looked both ways down the table, making certain no one could hear them. ‘But my master is in peril and in need of a good lawyer.’

  ‘Oh! That sounds promising. Tell me.’

  ‘Well … I don’t like to say. I think that’s why Master Clarke brought me here. To find the right lawyer …’

  ‘But Master Tucker!’ He slapped his chest with both hands, getting greasy butter on his dark merino houppelande. ‘I’m a lawyer!’ He slurped up the ale in his cup and settled his arms on the table. ‘Tell me.’

  Jack stretched his neck, searching for Thomas Clarke. But when he could not find him he sighed and toyed with his cup. Carefully and quietly he explained the situation, and Nigellus nodded solemnly. When Jack had finished, the lawyer put his hand to his chin and sat thoughtfully for a long time. ‘Well, Master Tucker, it looks as if we have some time. For it takes a year at least for such cases to come to trial.’

  ‘Oh no, Master Cobmartin. I wouldn’t rely on custom where my master is concerned. I fear they will try him just as fast as they can. If they gave me so much as a year, so much as a month, even, they well know I’d find the true culprit and snatch away their chance to hang him.’ He shook his head solemnly. ‘No, Master Cobmartin. I don’t think there is any time to waste.’

  The lawyer jumped to his feet. ‘Then come along, Master Tucker.’

  ‘What? Where …?’

  But Nigellus was already walking with long purposeful strides across the hall. Jack ran to the end of the table, rounded it, and hurried to catch up to the man. Jack was taller and his strides soon put him beside the man as they reached the entrance arch.

  Jack skidded to a halt and touched the man’s sleeve. ‘Oh! What do I do about Master Clarke?’

  ‘He brought you here to find a lawyer and you’ve found one. I suspect – that wily devil – that he put you at that very table in that very seat in order for you to talk to me. He knows how anxious I am to get on with it.’ He winked at Jack. ‘Come along. To my lodgings. I can take notes there.’

  ‘Will this take long, sir? There is still much I must investigate.’

  ‘Really? I should like to come, too, if it’s convenient.’

  They climbed the stairs, turned at the landing, then climbed again until they reached a shorter door. Nigellus unlocked it and ducked to enter. Jack did likewise. A small attic room, where the ceiling slanted dramatically. Nigellus had tacked various parchments to the exposed beams and they hung down like pennons from a castle wall. The rest of the space was cluttered with books, scrolls, stacks of parchment, a spilled inkpot, broken quills scattered about, and a small pot sitting in the window that held a weedy rose plant with drooping leaves. The room smelled close of sweat and smoke as if the glass-paned window had seldom been opened.

  A bed, whose quilt was covered with more parchment and books, was shoved into a corner, its bedposts nearly too tall for the low-angled ceiling. Indeed, the topmost finials looked to have scraped a few marks into the plaster. The fireplace grate was full of gray ash, and a few disheartened coals glowed pink.

  ‘Make yourself at home, Tucker. Sit.’

  Jack looked around. ‘Er … where, sir?’

  Nigellus looked up. ‘Dear me. I seem to have an ark of a room; all my rubbish is two by two. Here.’ He dislodged a pile of parchment and revealed a stool. He didn’t bother picking up the leaves.

  Jack pulled the stool along the floor with a scraping sound and sat, gazing at the detritus around them. What was he to make of this? Did this prove the man’s dexterity with the law or his mere fumbling with it? He had lost his first case. But maybe Jack couldn’t afford better.

  ‘What will this cost us, Master Cobmartin?’

  ‘Oh, call me Nigellus. We will be working together. What shall I call you?’

  ‘Erm … Jack.’

  ‘Master Jack. Excellent.’ Seeing nowhere else to sit, Nigellus pushed the parchments on his bed aside and flopped down, hands resting on his thighs. ‘My fee is one shilling.’

  ‘One shilling!’ He dropped his
face into his hand and rocked his head. ‘Master Nigellus, that comes dear.’

  ‘I realize that. Hmm. Perhaps we can come to terms. Assuming I win this case—’

  Jack blanched and Nigellus hastily added, ‘Why of course I will! Then your master and I will have an agreement that he work for me when I need it. At least until the bill is paid. For a small retainer of say, sixpence?’

  Jack nodded. He had at least that much and more in his pouch. He scrambled for it, counted out six pennies into his hand and offered it. Nigellus took it solemnly and dropped it into his money pouch.

  The lawyer narrowed his eyes at Jack. ‘And now we must get to it. I will need to talk to my client. Is he being held in Newgate?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I must be back to my own investigating. After all, if I uncover the true killer it will be easier to get my master released, will it not?’

  ‘Unquestionably. Then each to our own tasks, Master Jack! Veritas temporis filia dicitur!’

  ‘The truth is the daughter of time,’ quoted Jack, ‘Eventually the truth becomes known.’

  Nigellus beamed. ‘Well done, Master Jack. Or should I say, well done Master Guest?’

  Jack smiled. ‘My master.’ But his smile soon faded. ‘You must do your utmost, Master Nigellus. I am depending upon you, sir. My master must live.’

  Nigellus, too, grew solemn and he rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘I tell you truly, Jack, I may seem untried to you, but I have been studying the law, apprenticing under the finest barristers in the kingdom, for many, many years now. And though … though I lost my first case, it does not mean I shall be flippant with your faith in me.’ He lowered his hand and sighed. ‘A trial is a hurried thing. The juries are culled from the locus delicti, the neighborhood of the crime, and it is they who are instructed to discover what they can, to talk to witnesses, to sift the truth from the chaff. Now all we have at the moment are witnesses who saw your master arrive. He is the First Finder but he did not call the hue and cry. And finally, he has been known to kill. Even today, and that witness claims he had no provocation. These are all points against your master … not the least of which is his past as a traitor.’