‘I know it’s a hard thing …’
‘It’s just … you haven’t found the man what killed her. What if it was … well, they arrested the Tracker …’
‘That’s my master you’re talking about!’ He hadn’t meant to shout, but others along the street had turned to look, some straining their necks to peer above the crowds.
Jack chastened but faced Buckton squarely. ‘It isn’t my master,’ he said quieter, ‘and I am doing the best that I can. But these things take time. Be assured, Master Buckton, that I will find the culprit and I’ll make certain he hangs from the highest tree.’ He calmed himself, straightened his cotehardie, and took a breath. ‘And so, Master Buckton, would you be willing to come with me now to identify those I mentioned before?’
The man shook his head. ‘No. I have to get back to my work. You told me Sunday.’
‘That I did. I only thought that if you had the time now …’
‘No. Sunday.’ He turned abruptly away and shambled back to his shop.
Jack ran his hand up over his face. Not what he expected from the murdered women, no help about the third witness, and Buckton was putting him off. Could this day get any worse?
He gave it up, and with his apologies sent toward Newgate to his master, he set out toward home.
But he hadn’t gotten more than a few streets and down an alley when a man in a dark cloak accosted him. Jack spun, knife drawn, and leapt back from his attacker. It turned out to be a good tactic. Walter Noreys, teeth bared, glowered.
‘What do you want?’ Jack wished fervently that Buckton had agreed to accompany him for here was the first of many he wanted the man to identify.
‘I want that which is mine. I know who you really are and I know that Crispin Guest has the Virgin’s Tears. I know he has it! It is known he traffics in relics. There are countless tales of such. He must have it, and you know where it is.’ He pulled a long blade and crouched as if to fight.
Jack backed away. ‘Master Noreys, I am warning you now. Stand down. My master hasn’t the Tears. I saw the relic myself just yesterday at the house of the widow Peverel. And your father knows about your antics. Isn’t it bad enough that it got your brother killed?’
‘Don’t you speak about my brother!’
‘But it is true. You know it is. Give this up, Master Noreys.’
‘Here! What’s this?’
A man came into the alley and cried the alarm. Others came running and stood around them.
‘You see, Master Noreys,’ Jack urged. ‘You cannot win this. Go home. See to your family. It’s over and done.’
Noreys swept the crowd with a sneer and slammed his knife back in its sheath. ‘It’s not over, Tucker. While I live and breathe it’s not over. You just watch your back.’ He spun, his cloak whirling after him.
Jack slowed his breathing and carefully sheathed his dagger. The crowd watched him, while some stepped back out of the alley and followed Noreys’ retreat.
‘Are you all right, son?’ asked an older man, hand on Jack’s shoulder.
‘Thanks to you and your friends, sir. No harm done. Just an excitable fellow is he.’
‘Well I’d take his advice. To watch your back.’
‘And so I shall, sir. Thanks to you all.’ Jack saluted them and hurried on. But instead of heading home, he decided to stop by the Boar’s Tusk.
Blind me, I’m taking on my master’s habits, he admonished. No wonder Master Crispin drank. A little wine, a little ale went a long way to relaxing a man’s tensed shoulders.
He ducked inside the darker interior and found a place with a clear view of the room.
Gilbert arrived shortly thereafter and brought a jug and two cups. He sat opposite, not saying a word, and poured, scooting one cup toward Jack. He set the jug down and drank.
Jack cautiously took the cup and drank it down. It was enough to cleanse the day from his throat but a second dose helped his disposition. He set that cup down and wiped his mouth. ‘Thank you, Gilbert. That was needed.’
‘Any more word on the case, Jack? Are you any closer …’
He shook his head. ‘The more I dig, the more muddled it becomes. I tell you true, Gilbert, I never done a case on me own. And I surely never wanted that first one to be so grave a chore as to save my master’s life. It is harder work than I ever dreamed. I’d watch Master Crispin at it and he always seemed so calm, so precise. I feel like a bumbling, stumbling fool. At least his lawyer is confident that there is enough doubt not to convict. Is that so, Gilbert? Do you think there is a chance?’
Gilbert filled his cup again and set the jug down. ‘Well, as I’ve heard it – and there have been many at the Guildhall this day – there are some that hold fast to the witnesses, saying it could be none but Crispin, but there are still others who took your testimony to heart. They are not keen to convict, but they don’t know if they can acquit either.’
‘Damn!’ Jack stared sourly at the table. ‘I must try again tomorrow. Sunday or no, there is no rest while my master languishes in gaol.’
Gilbert patted his arm. ‘You’re a good lad, Jack. And so … I wish to ask you something of great import.’
Jack drank another dose of ale and set his cup down, waiting for Gilbert to speak.
‘Jack, my lad. It has come to my attention that … well, that Isabel might have been in your company the other day when she went missing.’
Jack straightened to his full height. He swallowed hard. ‘Now, Gilbert … there was nothing amiss. The lass wanted to help me in my cause. And once she did, I sent her back right quick. I did try to send her back right away but … she’s a bit … headstrong.’
Gilbert sagged, nodding. ‘Aye. That she is. Then … no harm done I suppose …’
‘Master Gilbert.’ Jack cleared his throat again when it suddenly thickened. ‘Master Gilbert, I was wondering. If a lad, such as m’self, someone who hasn’t quite got great prospects, should …’ He suddenly grew shy and couldn’t raise his eyes to the man. Instead, he drew circles in the rings left by his cup. ‘Should, say, want to … woo her. What would you say?’
The tavern keeper looked around and then hunkered down over the table, keeping their talk private. ‘Well now, Jack. A man like me must take into consideration that he’d want the best for his ward. He’d look for a man with a proper house and vocation. Someone who could support her and her children. I’d be a poor uncle indeed if I considered any less for her.’
Jack’s shoulders fell. He frowned and stared at the drawings he had made with the spilled ale. All nonsense. ‘I see. Aye, I should do no less for my own kin. One would have to be a fool to … to …’ He swallowed again and kicked the bench back as he rose. ‘Maybe I should be getting back home …’
Gilbert reached over and grasped Jack’s arm. ‘Sit you down, lad. I wasn’t done talking.’
Jack sat reluctantly, feeling like the biggest fool. His face felt burned like it was afire, burnished red and warm. He should have talked to Master Crispin first. He should have pled his case, and then his master would have talked him down, eased his mind with his clever words and sage advice. Maybe the two of them were meant for a solitary life like two monks in a cell.
‘But …’ Gilbert began, ‘I would also be a fool if I didn’t take into consideration the measure of the man. For a man could have all the gold in the world and be a villain. What sort of match would that be if my kin were soured and trodden? Her babes would be sickly, and if they lived would turn out to be scoundrels and shrews. No, it’s a fine responsibility being a guardian, for parent I am not, but I do love her like a child of my own. A fine upstanding man would be my choice for her. Even if he did make a meager living. For one day, this tavern and all that is in it, she would inherit, so it isn’t as if she would be left with nothing if this lad – whoever he is – didn’t make the living he should. He would be honest and true to her, and keep his oaths. That is the gold no man can keep in a money pouch.’
Jack flicked his gaze ov
er Gilbert’s kind, round face. ‘Sir?’
Gilbert smiled. ‘If the lass is willing … I’ll … give my consent.’
Blinking Jack rose again. ‘Y-you … you will?’
Gilbert stood, leaned over the table, and slapped the boy’s shoulder. ‘Jack Tucker, did you ever doubt it?’ He laughed out loud, grabbed the jug, and made his way through the customers toward the back of the tavern.
Jack watched him go, his open mouth growing into a smile, and his chest swelling with pride. ‘God blind me! Did you ever!’
He headed toward the door, body straight and tall with expectation … until he shuddered to a halt. If the lass is willing, Gilbert had said. And what if she weren’t?
Jack swung around, eyes searching for Isabel, horror on his face. He’d only just met her. How presumptuous of him to assume, with so little acquaintance, that she might think him a good prospect. For what was he? An apprentice and servant to a man who had no prospects of his own. And that was fine for the two of them, but add a wife into the mix and babes, it was a sour thing indeed. He had little to offer, earning only a farthing for each job he and Master Crispin took on. How was a wife to put that away for their retirement? Or a dowry should they have a girl!
But then his gaze fell on Isabel as she carried in the wood for the fire. She happened to look up in that instant and caught Jack’s gaze. A smile, all dimples and mischief, tore across her face, and her eyes shone with the brilliance of a spring day.
Jack’s heart melted. She does like me, he consoled himself. He gave her a shy little wave that she tried to return, though her arms were burdened. Instinctively, he moved toward her to help. And then a man burst through the door of the tavern, yelling, ‘Where’s Crispin Guest?’
Jack swiveled to look, and the man caught sight of him. He pushed his way forward – since the tavern customers began moving to discover what the matter was – and stood before Jack. ‘You must come quickly! Your house is on fire.’
‘What?’ Jack shoved him and cast open the doors. He ran and heard the footfalls of others following. Above the rooftops toward the Shambles, Jack saw angry black curls of smoke rising. ‘No!’ He ran harder, skidded around the corner, and saw the flames leaping from the tinker shop. He stopped before it, assessing. Red and gold flickered within the now black-rimmed windows. He peered inside, but hands grabbed him from behind, and he beheld the tinker and his family cowering in sooty clothes.
‘We’re all right, Jack. We worried over you.’
‘Then you are all well?’ His eyes tracked over Matilda, the tinker’s pig-faced daughter, and Alice, Martin’s shrewish wife. She did not seem to have anything to say today. Instead she wept and held her daughter.
The fire licked upward, quickly reaching the rafters; Master Crispin’s lodgings!
Jack made for the stairs, but some of the citizens of the Shambles held him back. ‘You can’t go up there, boy!’ cried the poulterer from next door. ‘The fire will be there in no time.’
Jack’s desperate search of the street saw men running forward with buckets of water, and soon a line formed. They tossed the water through the burned opening of the tinker shop, passed the empty bucket back, and got a newly filled bucket.
But all Jack could think of was their goods – Master Crispin’s sword! The man couldn’t lose it a second time. Not while Jack lived and breathed. He tore away from the gripping hands and shouts of the others and leapt upon the stairs, skipping every other one. He wasted no time with a key but kicked the door hard, once, twice. The third time broke the jam and he pushed inside. It was full of smoke. He raised his tunic over his face, went to the peg by the door, and grabbed the sword in its scabbard, hoisting it over his shoulder. He was turning to leave when he thought of their cache. Jack’s retirement of gems and coins, and Master Crispin’s family ring.
Coughing, he dug into the floor, hot already from the flames just inches beneath his feet, and pried up the boards. He reached in for the tightly bound bags. They were smoldering, but he quickly stuffed them into his scrip. He looked around. The Aristotle! His master prized it so. He threw open the coffer, gagged on the smoke and coughed until his eyes watered, before he reached in and grabbed the precious little book. There was no more room in his scrip, but his hands touched on the chess set from Abbot de Litlyngton.
And here he thought they owned nothing.
He scooped that up, too, under his arm, and made ready to leave when he thought at the last minute about the small portrait of his master’s lost love, Philippa Walcote.
Jack turned. Flames now burst up through the floorboards, and Jack nearly fell over from surprise. The heat was terrific and the smoke blinding. He slid on his knees before his master’s bed, shoved his arm under the mattress, and felt for the small frame. Where the sarding hell is it? Just when he was about to give up, his fingers closed on it and he pulled it free.
But when he turned toward the door, it was engulfed in flames like the gates of Hell itself. Everywhere he turned there was fire and smoke … and no exit.
You’re in for it now, Jack. Oh vanity! Why had he stopped to gather all these goods? They would all perish in the fire now, with him clutching them all.
His desperate search snagged on a vertical line of light through the smoke. The back window! He rushed toward it, barking his shin on the corner of his bed. Aw, my bed! That, too, was for the flames, and he’d only had it for a year.
Clutching the sword to his chest, the chess set under his arm, and the book and the portrait in his left hand, Jack closed his watering eyes and leading with his shoulder, he ran hard for the shutters and burst through them. Into the air he sailed, without the sweet earth beneath his feet. And still leading with his shoulder, he curled, and waited for the feel of the tiles of the roof on the shop behind them that slanted just outside their back window. Yet just as he was beginning to think he had miscalculated and was heading for the stony courtyard below, he landed hard on the roof, rolling and rolling, snapping the clay roof tiles as he went. Slipping farther, he slammed his foot down into the roughened tiles and stopped his progress over the side. His body came to a halt on the edge, his goods still wrapped tight in his arms and fingers.
He looked back, and a roar of fire burst from the window he had left only seconds before.
And though his shoulder ached, his lungs heaved from the smoke, and his hand was beginning to feel the heat of the burns he had received, all he could think was, What on earth will Master Crispin say?
FIFTEEN
Sunday, 18 October
Jack awoke the next morning to the sounds of church bells tolling all over the city. Sunday. The day of rest. The day to atone and to be refreshed in the blood and flesh of Christ.
But today was a day of mourning, as far as he was concerned.
After the fire had destroyed most of the tinker shop’s building, the citizens of the Shambles and surrounds had managed to stop the fire from going farther. There was nothing as fearsome as a fire in a city, for there was almost no stopping such an inferno when it hungrily devoured. But all sang the praises of the sooty men who had helped, who had worked hard into the evening and had declared the fire out by Compline.
The men of the Boar’s Tusk had lent a hand, and exhausted, Gilbert led them all back and offered them a round, free of charge. Jack, heartsore and injured, never had to ask for the charity he needed. Eleanor took him under her wing and set him up in a bed with Ned by the fire. She and Isabel saw to his burned hand with ointment and a clean bit of cloth wrapped tight around it, and sent him to sleep. The things he had rescued were stored beneath his cot, except the sword. No matter how they pleaded he would not relinquish it, and lay on the straw-stuffed mattress, clutching the sword to his chest all night long.
And now he stared up at the rafters. Ned was already at his duties, but Jack was still stunned by events. He’d been homeless before. For years after his mother died he had abandoned their master and taken to the streets. But this was different. He had bec
ome a civilized man. He had accustomed himself to a fire and a roof and even the comforts of a bed. What were he and his master to do? They had nothing, save what Jack had rescued. And only the clothes on their backs. Master Crispin’s writing things were gone. Their extra clothes – linen chemise, stockings, braies. All burned. True, he had saved what little money they had … and a few baubles Master Crispin held dear. But … all the rest …
And of course, there was still the problem of setting his master free.
Jack felt the tears at his eyes, the lump warming his throat. It was all too much.
And then suddenly, Eleanor was there. ‘Now lamb. You mustn’t fret. You’ll have a place with us for as long as you need it. And Crispin, too.’
He sat up, set the sword aside, and turned away to wipe at his eyes. What sort of spectacle was he making of himself, weeping like a maiden? He’d had troubles before, and he hadn’t wept at them. Why succumb now?
‘I’m all right, Eleanor,’ he muttered. His bandaged hand throbbed with pain, and his throat was dry, his mouth still tasting of smoke. He rose and his gaze met hers. ‘I still have work to do.’
‘Eat first, Jack.’
‘Eleanor …’
‘Jack Tucker, you will eat. What would Crispin say if I let you go on an empty stomach?’ And then her own eyes teared up and she daubed at them with the hem of her apron.
He slid his arm in hers and leaned against her. ‘Of course, Eleanor. I need me strength, don’t I?’
He sat down to a meal with Ned, Gilbert, and Isabel, while Eleanor fussed over him. He wanted to gaze at Isabel, thinking it might cheer him, but he was filled with so many dark thoughts, so much loss, he couldn’t bear to raise his head. He certainly did not relish seeing pity in her eyes.
He ate as much as he could under Eleanor’s watchful gaze, asked Gilbert to secure his things in a safe location, and left hurriedly before anyone – especially Isabel – could approach him alone.
He had to go to Newgate first. He had to tell his master what had happened.
A Maiden Weeping Page 17