The carriage slowed and then stopped. Crispin passed it without a second glance until out of the corner of his eye, a window flap rose.
“You there!”
Crispin kept walking, ducking into his hood so that the leather would take the brunt of the slushy flakes.
“You there!” said the voice more sternly.
A shadowy figure through the window beckoned to him. Crispin looked over his shoulder just to check that it was, indeed, himself the man wanted, and then he stopped. He stepped forward but kept a decent distance. “You called me?”
“Are you . . . Crispin Guest?”
Like a cloak, a sense of caution enveloped him. “Who asks?”
A chuckle, deep and melodious. “May I offer you a ride?”
Crispin eyed the driver, who stared straight ahead, never looking down at him. He wore no livery, gave no clue as to the inhabitant of the carriage below him.
The doorway of the carriage lay open, a dark rectangle offering nothing. Were there more men within? An ambush, perhaps?
He studied what he could see of the shadowy face in the window. “You are not going in my direction,” Crispin offered.
The chuckle again. “We can circle about. Whither do you go?”
“To Westminster.”
“Mmm. Get in.”
Crispin stood his ground, the snow piling around his feet. “Who are you?”
“I would never have guessed that the great Tracker was so cautious.”
“Nor so foolhardy.” The man was baiting him. Was it worth it?
The gloved fingers on the sill tapped a drumbeat before gripping the side. “Get in,” he said again, sternly but still somewhat friendly.
Swearing under his breath, Crispin edged toward the doorway, hesitated one moment more, and then climbed in.
As soon as he sat, the carriage jerked and started again. He saw no one but the man. There was no attendant. No guard, save the driver.
The carriage’s shadows covered most of him, but as Crispin’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he detected more of the stranger. A man perhaps younger than Crispin, bundled in a black, fur-trimmed gown. A high collar came up under his clean-shaven chin. Blue eyes considered him under lazy lids. A felt cap covered his fair hair. He seemed small in his clothing, as if he were made of sticks, not flesh. He said nothing as Crispin studied him. The carriage pitched and rolled over the rutted street. It wasn’t a comfortable ride by any means, but it was better than walking. Just barely.
Crispin clutched the seat and sighed. “Well then? I am here. As you bid.”
The man leaned back and regarded Crispin leisurely. He smiled. Even as the carriage bounced and he along with it, he didn’t look ruffled. “You’re a strange man, Guest.”
Crispin shifted on his seat, looking for a comfortable spot on the scant cushion. He couldn’t find one. “As you say.”
He chuckled again. “And you don’t even bother to deny it. You don’t think that strange?”
“What is strange is this conversation. You have not yet introduced yourself, sir. Or is it ‘my lord’?”
A gloved finger traced down his chin. The ring on it bore no signet.
Crispin waited. He glanced out the doorway and saw that they were now headed for Westminster. He sat back. “Clearly there is something you want of me.”
“Clearly.”
Amused silence emanated from across the carriage. He clenched his jaw. If there was one thing Crispin couldn’t stomach, it was the playing of these games. He shifted again, making a show of impatience. But the stranger appeared to have all the time in the world.
Crispin started when the man spoke again even though he had been waiting for that very thing.
“I believe you are one of the few men who can appreciate order.”
Games, then. “I doubt I am one of a few. Most men crave order. God in his Heaven. The king on his throne. His lords around him. Even the lowliest villein appreciates order knowing that all is well.”
The man drew his hands together like a prayer, touching his lips with his fingertips. But he said nothing.
“I know you find this strange coming from the likes of me—” Crispin began, trying to bridge the unhelpful silence.
“No, I do not. As I said, I knew you could appreciate . . . order.”
“And be wary of the lack of it?”
“Indeed.”
Their exchange was rather like moves across a chessboard; nothing to be revealed too soon.
Crispin watched the face that did not change. Perhaps his questions needed to be couched like chess moves. “And what lack of order, pray, must I be wary of?” he tried.
The smile was back. “A lack of order can be very bad. For a parish, for a kingdom. Those who do not follow the order defy God. Would you not agree?”
“The Almighty molds our lives. Those who rule over us are anointed to do so. Those who defy this order . . .” Crispin offered a wry smile, “suffer.”
“Indeed, Master Guest. You know this well. A pity you could not have reminded yourself of that fact before you committed treason.” Crispin’s smile faded, but the man went on. “It is no matter. You have served London well in the years following your appalling disgrace.”
Much thanks, thought Crispin with a sneer.
“We must have order,” the man went on. “Without it, we are like a castle whose walls are undermined. The foundations crack, the walls topple, and the enemy rushes in.”
Crispin waved a gesture of agreement. He tried to surmise the man from his clothes, but there was nothing to indicate his affiliation or family name. Nor did his person boast of any parish fraternity. His pouch was simple, his girdle nondescript, his dagger plain. He was wealthy enough to own a carriage, but why not the usual display of his family’s arms all over it? Why was the driver not liveried? And why were there no other servants abroad with him?
The man also wore no sword. He did not feel the need to arm himself then. In a land where even the king wore a sword, this man had none. What manner of man did not carry a sword? Surely he could afford it, unlike Crispin who felt the lack of a sword daily as if a limb had been hacked off. The man was also young, though his age seemed indeterminate. He was younger than Crispin, older than Jack. At times, when he turned his head just so, he seemed quite young indeed, but at other times, when the dim sunlight caught his eyes, the intelligence there would seem to mold him into something a great deal older.
“At any rate,” said the man, “I want you to continue to do as you are doing.”
“As I am doing?”
Those blue eyes continued to stare. “Yes. Your investigation.” He polished the stone on his ring with his other glove, studying the effect. “Of the murders.”
A spike of something hot lanced through Crispin’s chest but his face remained cool. “What murders?”
The man threw his head back and laughed. Crispin crossed his arms over his chest and waited for the laughter to subside. “I was told to expect that from you,” said the man. “I am pleased to see you do not disappoint.” He smoothed out the cloth on his lap. “And the missing parchments, of course. I expect that you shall find them soon. And when you do, I shall be most grateful if you return them to me instead of the old Jew.”
The man seemed to know far more about Crispin’s doings than Crispin was comfortable with. “Forgive me.” Crispin leaned forward and rested an arm on his thigh, keeping a steady eye on the man. “I think it best you tell me who you are. Now.” It was a risk. The man was obviously wealthy. And his accent was not lowborn as so many rich merchants and alderman were, though it was distinctly foreign. From the north, perhaps? If the man were a nobleman, Crispin’s tone might get him tossed out. Or worse.
Instead of some angry retort, the man merely looked out the window. “Oh. We are here.”
Crispin twisted his neck, looking out the bright doorway. The carriage stood at the gates of the palace. “How did you know this was my destination?”
But the
man’s face was now closed. The finger ran softly over his lower lip.
Crispin snorted and rose, keeping his shoulders bowed for the short ceiling. He waited. The man was as tight as a portcullis. The whole matter annoyed. He was being manipulated and he had had quite enough of that. “Well,” said Crispin sullenly. “I thank you for the ride at least.”
“Not at all. I suppose you will need a surety from me.” He reached for the bag at his belt, took out a small pouch, and tossed it to Crispin. Crispin caught it one-handed and felt the many coins within. But before the man could blink, Crispin tossed it back. The man stared at the pouch where it landed in his lap.
“I know you not. Nor your reasons for hiring me. When you wish to make that clear—as well as your name, sir—contact me again. I can be found on the Shambles.”
The man smiled. “I know well where you live.” The phrase unexpectedly chilled. The man took up the pouch and stared at it, still smiling. He did not look toward Crispin when he dismissed him with a chuckle. “Fare you well, Crispin Guest. God keep you.”
“And you.” He stepped out of the carriage. He turned to ask one more time, but it jerked ahead, rambling back down St. Margaret’s Street toward London. What the devil?
Who was that man? And how did he know of the murders when even the duke of Lancaster had not? And how the hell was he privy to the missing parchments? Did he, too, wish to make his own Golem . . . or had he already?
Briefly, he considered following the carriage, but gave up the idea as fanciful. What could he discover if the man would not even deliver his name? Besides, the broad-shouldered carriage driver did not look to be one who would allow such liberties.
He tugged at his cotehardie to straighten its creases and scanned the streets. Did this man in the carriage know Jacob of Provençal? A chill rippled over him as he recalled where he had spotted the strange figure from last night. The physician was certain that this was his fabled Golem, but in the light of day, Crispin wasn’t convinced. True, he had seen the figure with his own eyes, but eyes can be deceived or misdirected. It had been late, cold. One’s imagination can thrive in the fertile ground of shadows and anxiety. What they had seen was not what they had thought. But Jacob was convinced it was. Why? He held much store by his Jewish magic, of course. Crispin shook his head at it. Gullible. His thoughts fell again toward the son, the one who could not be as trusted as the father.
Crispin swore, causing a young boy carrying a basket of eggs beside him to turn to give him the eye. Idiot, Crispin told himself. He should have searched their room! Well, there would be time for that once Lancaster made good on his promise to send that livery. If the duke could be trusted.
He sighed. Intrigues. They bedeviled him wherever he went, it seemed. The only thing worth trusting was facts. Facts stared you in the face. They did not try to deceive. Yet even facts could be twisted. It took a judicious eye to winnow out what was fact from lies.
So the facts of the case were these: four dead boys. He could only make a judgment about the fourth boy, having witnessed the body for himself; he was a beggar or a servant. The other three he did not know, for the Coroner’s notes did not take such details into account. No child had been reported missing, which meant that these boys were alone and unwanted. But was that the case? Might it be that these boys came from afar and would not be missed for some time? If this were true, then their identities may never be known. Facts.
Second, Jacob of Provençal claimed that stolen magic parchments unleashed a murderer into their midst! At this, Crispin scoffed.
From the Coroner’s rolls, he knew about the incisions on the abdomens of the boys and the removal of their entrails, though not all the same ones were missing. It seemed to Crispin that someone for some reason wanted these prizes. Someone very like a physician. Someone like the peevish Julian. A would-be physician. An angry young man with a purpose.
Surely their deaths were to hide sodomy. A would-be physician might use their deaths as an excuse for vivisection. And for other nefarious reasons. Crispin grimaced at the thought.
And now this nobleman in the carriage. What did he know of the murders? Too much.
A sick sensation swam in his gut. Had Crispin been entertained by a vicious murderer?
Many facts. None of them made the least bit of sense yet. But they would. He swore they would.
First things first. Jacob and his Jewish magic troubled him. It might be the root of all their ills or it might be only a foolish diversion. There was one person who could give him some perspective and some proper information on that troubled people, and that was Nicholas de Litlyngton, abbot of Westminster Abbey.
Crispin turned on his heel and headed toward the church.
8
Westminster Abbey lay across a snowy expanse of courtyard, spiny with peaks and arches, as prickly as a hedgehog. The white snow drifted into the mason’s details of carved stone, ledges, and trefoils, defining their textures and curves.
Crispin debated with himself whether he should enter the church at the north entrance or back by the chilly cloister. The idea that the church might be a bit warmer won out, and he trod up the snowy path toward the Norman portico. Inside was dark, but the large rose and clerestory windows offered pale, colored light as if through the iridescent wings of a mayfly.
The nave was not empty. It teemed with men of all stripes. Though there were some kneeling by the distant rood screen, others paced across the shining stone floor. Business was flourishing. Clerks, scribes, and lawyers eager for employment from merchants and nobles, wore away the tiles in their quest. One clerk looked up hopefully before his eyes shadowed over Crispin’s threadbare cotehardie and flicked away again.
The air smelled of old incense and must. A draft made the open nave cold, flickering the candles, but the interior was not as cold as the naked world without. Crispin’s eyes adjusted and then searched the arched nave for a cassock.
The columns were surrounded by scaffolding. It seemed every great cathedral in England was being reworked and made anew, a caterpillar sloughing off last year’s skin in hopes of emerging as a butterfly. Crispin supposed the money was well spent, but there seemed to him to be the same number of beggars at the almsdoor. Funny how he never gave it much thought before, when he was donating his coin purse for a chapel to be built at Sheen. A chapel in which others, Giles de Risley among them, now prayed.
The columns and pillars of stone shot up into the dim, vaulted ceiling. Taller than any forest, it was a feat to be admired. The mason’s art was more than craft. It was too bad Crispin had not been apprenticed so. I’d never be out of work if I had been.
His eyes scanned again down the nave and peered past the pillars into the wooden choir with its own carved spires. There he saw a monk lighting candles, and headed toward him.
“Good Brother,” he said, delaying the monk as he raised his silver candle lighter. The monk turned to him. He was young, perhaps little more than a boy. His hood was drawn low over his brow. Brown eyes glittered with surprise that he should be addressed. He said nothing, but waited for Crispin to speak.
“I need to see Abbot Nicholas. Could you take me to him?”
The monk’s eyes widened. Crispin expected it. He interrupted what would surely have been a sputtered excuse. “My Lord Abbot and I are old friends. He will see me. I will tarry here if it please you. Tell him Crispin Guest awaits.”
The monk could not seem to argue with this. He closed his mouth and blew out the wick at the end of his lighter. Scurrying down the aisle toward the south transept, he looked back once. Crispin followed, knowing that the young cleric would return this way. He strolled to the door at the crotch of the south transept. Three large quatrefoils within circles of stone reared above the arched entrance, upheld by lancet arches. The door would be barred. He would wait. He had no doubt the youth, or another monk, would be back.
It didn’t take long for a familiar face to unlock the door and approach. Brother Eric smiled from under his cowl
. “Master Crispin,” he said. “Benedicte.”
“Thanks be to God,” Crispin replied and took his hand in welcome, hiding a wince when his wounded arm flexed. “May I speak a few words with the abbot?”
Brother Eric nodded and gestured for Crispin to follow. They entered the cloister and ambled down the colonnade, walking side by side. Their steps echoed back to them and bounced from carrel to empty carrel. The cloister garden was a tangle of dead sticks and twisted, brown vines. All lay dormant now that winter was upon them, though the stillness faltered under the flitting of bramblings that rustled the branches and pecked at the wattle fences, their orange breasts lending a bit of color to the lifeless undergrowth.
The way was familiar to Crispin and, shoulder to shoulder, they trotted up the chilled steps to the abbot’s quarters.
Brother Eric drew ahead of Crispin and knocked lightly on the abbot’s door. A soft reply later, and the monk opened the heavy oak, allowing Crispin in before he shut it after him, leaving them alone.
“Crispin!” The old abbot’s face lit and he made a move to skirt his worktable, but Crispin motioned for him to remain. Instead, he met the man with the table between them and extended his hand. “My Lord Abbot.”
“It is good to see you, friend Crispin. Shall we have wine?”
Eagerly, he retreated to the sideboard where he knew Abbot Nicholas kept French wine in a flagon. He poured two goblets of the golden liquid and returned, offering one to the abbot before they both sat. Putting the metal goblet to his lips, Crispin closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet fruit before his mouth tasted. When he opened his eyes again, the abbot was smiling at him. “Good, eh? I just received this shipment from Spain. I favor the sweetness of this variety.”
“Quite good,” said Crispin, savoring the flavors exploding on his tongue.
They sipped at their goblets for a few moments before Abbot Nicholas sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have not seen you in some time, Crispin. Our chess game awaits.”
The tall windows showered a rainbow of light onto the chessboard, illuminating chess pieces that they had left a month before. Slowly, Crispin sat in his chair on the black side and Nicholas seated himself opposite. The abbot took a short quaff of his wine, set it aside on a table, and rubbed his hands. “I believe it is your turn.”
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