London, 1384
1
“He’s still out there.” Jack Tucker leaned his head and
shoulders out the window.
“Close the damn shutters,” growled Crispin. “It’s too cold
in here as it is.”
“Sorry, Master,” said the boy, doing as bid. His ginger hair
was dusted with snow. “It’s just that that man is still out
there, looking up at us. Makes me a bit shivery.”
“The cold will do that.” Hunkered by their meager fire,
Crispin held one hand toward the flames. The other was
curled around a bowl of tart wine.
“He might be a client, sir.”
“He might be.”
“Why don’t you go look?”
Crispin drank the bitter liquid. Winter did not seem to
bring him as many clients as the warmer months. Perhaps
fewer crimes were committed in the winter and a “private
sheriff” was not in the family finances when it came down to it.
The small room offered little comfort. Its few bits of
rented furniture—a chair, a stool, a rickety table—stood in
the center of unadorned walls. Crispin’s pallet bed was
shoved against the wall near the hearth, and on the opposite
side of the small fire lay a pile of straw, the place Jack
tucked in at night. Four strides would take him to a chest
by the door, which held Crispin’s change of stockings and
braies and his few writing implements. He was lucky to have
two windows, one facing the back garden and the one Jack had
been leaning out facing the Shambles. But “luck” was a
relative term. Today, with London chilled like a frozen
lake, two windows only offered more opportunities for an icy
draft.
“Let me see, then.” Crispin rose with a bone-weary sigh and
set the empty bowl aside. He joined Jack by the window, but
instead of throwing open the shutter, he peered down through
a crack in the wood that he usually kept stuffed with a rag.
Below, in the snow-painted street, stood a man in a long
black gown. His dark beard was salted by time as were his
bushy brows. His head was covered by a tight-fitting felt
cap with flaps that covered his ears. And he was looking up
at Crispin’s window expectantly, ignoring the occasional
passerby in the street.
“He certainly seems determined about something,” said Crispin.
“Then why don’t he come up?” asked the boy, twisting his
cloak across his chest.
“A very good question. Why don’t you go down and find out.”
“Me?” Suddenly the mystery did not need solving so urgently.
“He might be a madman. He’s been there a straight hour and
he hasn’t moved.”
“All the more reason to see what he wants. Go on now, Jack.
If apprentice you wish to be, then you had best obey your
master.”
“I knew that would bite me in the arse,” he grumbled.
Securing his cloak, he marched toward the door. He took a
firm grip of his knife sheath and looked Crispin in the eye.
It was moments like these that Jack seemed so very young. Of
course it was true. At twelve, his cheeks were still plump
from childhood and though his voice cracked a bit, it hadn’t
yet deepened. “If I don’t come back, it’s your fault.”
“Shall I keep watch? Is an old man so much of a threat to you?”
“I’m going!” he replied sullenly, and slipped through the door.
But Crispin did keep watch through the chink, and saw Jack
appear cautiously below. The man tore his gaze at last from
Crispin’s second-storey window and stared at Jack. The creak
of cart and hiss of wind made it impossible for Crispin to
hear their quiet exchange, but he could well tell by Jack’s
pantomime what he told the man. He appeared to be entreating
him upstairs, but the man shook his head. It seemed that he
was content to stand in the snow and merely gaze up at the
window.
Crispin studied the man anew. “Hmpf. Now I grow curious.”
Footsteps at his door told him Jack had returned. The door
opened. “Bless me,” said Jack, shaking the flakes from his
cloak and stamping at the threshold. “He does want to talk
to you, sir. But he will not come up.”
“Oh? Does he say why?”
“No, sir. He seems most stubborn about it. I told him that
the Tracker was not in the habit of meeting strange men in
the cold streets instead of his warm lodgings.”
No, indeed. He had no wish to leave the feeble warmth of his
room, but the larder was decidedly bare. “It seems I have no
choice but to humor this miscreant. Tell me, Jack. How did
he seem to you? What was his character?”
He knew the boy liked to show off his growing skills, and on
cue, Jack puffed up and hooked his thumbs in his belt.
“Well, now. He is a man of middle years, well-spoken, neat
and clean.”
“London or foreign?”
“Foreign. French, I think. His speech has got a light touch,
if you get my meaning. He seems like a gentleman.”
“Then he’ll have the coin. Very well. I shall meet this
mysterious man on the street.” Crispin buttoned his cloak
tight, pulled his chaperon hood up over his head, and yanked
open the frost-bitten door.
He trotted down the narrow stairwell, mindful of the icy
last step, and when he reached the lane, he studied the man
with steel-gray eyes. The man turned and measured Crispin
but did not approach. Instead, he bowed. “Do I have the
pleasure of meeting the great Crispin Guest?” The accent was
soft but unmistakably French.
“‘Great’ is a matter of perspective. But Crispin Guest I am.
And you, sir? You find your occupation by staring at my
window. To what end?”
The man took a step closer. Crispin eyed his gown, a dark
woolen robe cut in solemn lines and trimmed with black fur.
His skin was pale and his beard grew past his chin but was
not long enough to graze his chest. There, on the breast of
his gown, Crispin observed something unexpected: a round,
yellow patch carefully stitched into place.
The man saw Crispin eye it but did not comment. “My name is
Jacob of Provençal.”
He stepped closer. “I am a physician. From the continent.”
Crispin said nothing, waiting.
The man continued. “I have heard others speak of you, of
this ‘Tracker.’ You find things. Lost things.”
“Indeed. It is my bread and butter.” His stomach took that
moment to growl. The tips of his ears warmed.
The man smiled. “En effet. I am looking for a most important
object. A dangerous one. It must be found before, well, it
simply must. I beg that you come to my lodgings and we shall
discuss it there.”
Crispin turned an eye to his window, knowing well Jack was
spying on them. “And where are your lodgings?”
“At court.”
He hadn’t meant to, but Crispin stiffened. The man watched
him with a judicious eye. “I…have also heard,” the man said
carefully, “that you may not be welcomed there.”
“An understatement. It would be difficult my going to King
Richard’s palace. But I know of another place that might
suit. Someplace closer. Will you permit me to lead you to an
alehouse?”
The man hesitated. He pressed a pale finger to his lip and
glanced up at Crispin’s shuttered window before he lowered
his head. He muttered something under his breath and lifted
his face. “Very well, then. Lead me.”
Crispin tramped through the slushy snow with rag-stuffed
boots. He did not wait for the sound of the man’s footfalls
behind him, though they came anyway in a faint and reluctant
step.
He tried to tread into the already dark hoof marks carved
into the snowy streets, but his stride was not as long as
the draft horses, and his boots were soaked and cold by the
time he made the turn at the corner to Gutter Lane where the
Boar’s Tusk cast its weighty shadow across the road. When he
came to the door he waited. The man approached and Crispin
opened it, gesturing him through. Crispin followed him in
and the warmth, which his own humble lodgings lacked,
clapped his cold cheeks hard. He felt his bones thaw as he
moved into the dim room to find his usual seat near the
fire, his back to the wall and facing the door. He gestured
for the man to sit opposite him.
Jacob gathered his cloak and gown around him and sat
gingerly on the bench.
It wasn’t long before a plump matron came to their table
with a sweating jug in one hand and two clay bowls in the
other. “Crispin,” she said with a wide smile.
“Eleanor.” Seeing her warm and friendly face touched off a
spark of warmth within him. She and her husband, Gilbert,
owned the Boar’s Tusk. They were some of the first to
befriend him since he came to the Shambles some seven years ago.
“Will you share wine with me, Master Jacob,” said Crispin to
the wary man.
Jacob shook his head and squinted at Eleanor’s expression.
“I mean no offense to this good woman here, or to her
establishment. But I may not partake of anything…here.”
Crispin’s eyes flicked to that yellow rouelle on the man’s
breast once more before settling on his lined and drawn face.
Flushed, Eleanor merely poured a bowl for Crispin and left
the jug before she scooted away. Crispin surveyed the room
of uneven wooden tables with their hard-worn benches and
stools, scouting for familiar faces or eavesdroppers. Some
tables were lit with candles, their greasy odor lifting and
blending with the smells of toasting logs, roasted meats,
and sweaty woolens. There were few patrons this afternoon.
It was too cold to venture forth other than to earn one’s
daily wage. Yet Crispin usually found himself in his
favorite tavern each day. Little wonder his funds were low
when he insisted on his wine.
He took up the bowl, silently saluted his companion, and
drank. The wine was slightly bitter, but it didn’t matter.
It warmed him and dulled the ache in his heart when he
considered his empty money pouch and the depths he had to
plumb to fill it.
Jacob hunkered in his robes and surveyed the other patrons
with a wince of disdain. “We are quite alone, Master Jacob,”
said Crispin between quaffs. He poured more into the bowl
and set both jug and cup on the table, turning the cup
slowly with his fingertips. “What is it you wish to tell me?”
Jacob canted closer to the table and placed both arms on its
surface. He clasped his long, pale fingers together. “Maître
Guest, I have heard many rumors as concerns you.”
“Could any of them possibly be true?” He smirked and drank
another dose.
“I come from afar, Maître. But even I have heard of the
Tracker…a man who was once a traitor.”
Seven years had passed yet still he hated the term. He
gripped the bowl. “Traitor I was, sir, though I do not boast
in it. I am alive. I do not boast in that either, for that
circumstance can surely change with the season.”
The man eased back. His eyes darted about the room, wary.
Crispin’s gaze fell again to the yellow patch on the man’s
chest and could not help the welling of mistrust in his
breast. “May I ask?”
Jacob sat very still. Robes gathered protectively about him,
he seemed more chrysalis than man.
Crispin did not mince words. “Why is a Jewish physician
called to England’s court?”
The man smiled cautiously. His gaze rested steadily on
Crispin’s. “Why indeed? To a place where Jews are unwelcome?
In fact, so unwelcome that your king made it illegal for
Jews to reside here generations ago.”
“Yes.” An unnamed discomfort flushed Crispin’s body. The
Jews of England were exiled well before his time and he had
been spared congress with them. It was said they had lived
in Camden, but if they had, there was little trace there
now. What remained was the old Domus Conversorum on Chancery
Lane, the place where the converted Jews lived under the
grace of old King Henry of Winchester, the father of Edward
Longshanks, who expelled them at last. Jews were outlawed
from entering England and it was a just law, although there
was the occasional new inhabitant to the Domus, those
traveling Jews who had come to their senses.
Crispin had been to the Holy Land, seen Saracens and Jews,
and their ways were too foreign, too disturbing to his
Christian sensibilities. To be sitting with a Jew now in his
favorite tavern made him itch to leave. Even so, the man’s
demeanor was respectful and cautious. He seemed to know well
how he stood and was almost amused by it.
“And so,” Crispin pursued. “Why are you here? At court, no
less?”
“My specialty was desired. If I may be bold,” he said, his
white hand pressed to his breast and his head bowed. “My
services are well known far from France. Your king has
permitted me passage here to serve the queen.”
“Eh? I was not aware that our queen was ill.”
The man merely blinked. His rosy lips pressed closed and
would divulge no more.
Crispin poured more wine, took up his bowl, and drank it
down. The warm buzz he sought had settled pleasantly into
his head. “And so, our King Richard allows a Jew to live in
his palace.” And not me was the unspoken thought. He
chuckled to himself. “I’ve no doubt that your services are
more valuable,” he muttered. He put the bowl aside and
squared with Jacob. “Then tell me. What would you hire me to
do?”
“Your fee is sixpence a day?”
“Plus expenses, if I must travel.”
“Of course, of course.” Jacob stroked his beard and stared
into Crispin’s wine bowl. The light flickered on its ruby
surface. “Your discretion—”
“Have done with this,” Crispin growled. “You say you know me
and my reputation. Then get on with it.”
The man nodded deferentially, a skill learned, no doubt,
from the lessons of subservience. “Very well. Valuable
parchments have been stolen from my apartments. They must be
returned.”
“Valuable in what way? Deeds?”
“If only they were so mundane. But they are important,
nonetheless. Can you help me?”
“Recover lost parchments? For sixpence a day, I will see
what I can do. But it might help to know what they are.”
“Oh….” He waved his hand and quickly hid it again under the
table. “Texts. In Hebrew. You would not find them significant.”
“But clearly someone did. And you called it ‘dangerous,’ if
I recall.” Jacob said nothing. He merely blinked, his papery
lids folding over hazel eyes. “Some scholar who wished to
examine them?” Crispin offered to the silence.
“Perhaps.” Jacob tugged on his beard again before he seemed
to realize the habit and lowered his hand to his lap.
Crispin sighed. Lost parchments seemed more trouble than
they were worth, especially for a Jew. But coin was coin. “I
shall have to see your apartments. And to do that, well, it
will be difficult. I must raise my fee and charge one
shilling a day for my trouble.”
The man seemed startled. “Why must you see my apartments?”
“To examine the place from which they were stolen. From this
I might garner valuable information.” He studied the quiet
man and his stooped posture. “Out of curiosity, why have you
not gone to either of the sheriffs with this theft? Or
complained to the king, since you have his ear?”
“No. I have come to you.”
“That you have. But it does not explain—”
Jacob rose abruptly. “Come to the palace gate, and I will
meet you there at nightfall.”
Crispin rose more slowly. The meeting was apparently over.
“Very well. There is the warrant of my fee….”
Jacob’s eyes widened and he wrestled with his robe for a
moment before producing a small leather pouch. He placed it
on the table between them. “There is four shillings’ worth
of silver there. Till nightfall, Maitre Guest.”
Crispin took up the pouch and clenched it in his fist.
“Master Jacob,” he said with a curt nod of his head.
He watched the man hurriedly leave and looked again at the
small pouch. He pulled out one coin and left it on the table
for Eleanor. At least he had been able to pay his way today.
# # #
Upon returning to his lodgings, Crispin explained it to
Jack, who had been glad to hear that Crispin was hired but
was not as pleased to hear that the man was a Jew.
“You’re taking money from a Jew? Ain’t they the ones who
crucified our Lord?”
“So says Holy Scriptures.”
“Then they aught not to be in England. The law was made ages
ago.”
“You will find, Jack, that laws and kings are rarely to be
met within the same sentence.”
“Eh?”
Crispin snorted. “Whatever King Richard desires, he gets.
The man is a physician to the queen. I’ve no doubt he is
here to discover why she has not gotten with child.”
“Oh.” Jack looked out the window thoughtfully. “But you’re
to be at the palace gate at nightfall.”
“Yes. Have you objections to that?”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Why?”
Jack shrugged. “I just don’t. He loses papers he says are
not important yet he won’t go to the sheriff. What are those
papers about, then?”
“I was wondering that myself. He called them parchments of
Hebrew texts. I was trying to think what might be important
about that.”
“Scriptures?”
“If so, why did he not say so? Perhaps they are for his
physician’s art. Yet he did not admit that either. It makes
no matter. I will find them, and I will make a pretty penny
from it.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You are not required to like it,” he snapped. “I must take
employment where it comes!” He didn’t like to bark at Jack
but the boy had little concept of his place. Yet when he
turned to Jack and studied the boy’s threadbare coat and
hood, he suddenly remembered that Jack did know it. Hadn’t
the boy spent the best years of his childhood on his own in
the streets as a cutpurse? Jack was lucky to have survived
at all.
Reluctantly, Crispin softened. “Do you wish to accompany me?”
Jack’s head snapped up. His brown eyes rounded, catching the
firelight. “Me?”
“You are my apprentice. How are you to learn anything hiding
out here? And I can keep a sharp eye on you. Keep you out of
mischief.”
“I don’t get in no mischief,” he grumbled. And as if to
prove it, he grabbed a broom from the corner and began
furiously sweeping the clean floor.
# # #
The sun bled in streaks of faded color between slashes of
heavy gray clouds. Crispin and Jack set out and walked for
nearly half an hour down long, snowy lanes toward the city
of Westminster and the palace. As they entered each parish,
they heard the echoing timbre of church bells even above the
howl of wind, each tower with its own characteristic sound.
The deep tones of St. Paul’s, whose shadow hovered over the
Shambles, soon dispersed and they entered into the domain of
the tinny jangling of St. Bride. A few more streets and then
St. Clement Danes’ urgent claxon gave way to Saint
Martin-in-the-Fields’ timid pealing before even that sound
was finally overshadowed by the rich resonance of the bells
of Westminster Abbey.
Charing Cross stood rigid in the icy cold of the crossroads.
Its cross and steps were snowcapped and solemn. Jack’s
admonishment kept preying on Crispin’s mind: You’re taking
money from a Jew? Was he that desperate? The answer came
swiftly. His rent was due in a few days and he had no money
with which to pay it. Martin Kemp, his landlord, was kind to
him and often did not demand the rents on time, unlike his
shrewish wife, who enjoyed constantly harrying Crispin on
that very point.
Money. It had never been an issue before. Not before his
ill-fated decision to join with those conspirators seven
years ago, at any rate. There was money aplenty then.
Shameless amounts of it. Wasted on trinkets for foolish
women and wine with dubious friends. Where were those
friends now? And where the women? He had tossed coins so
carelessly to bards and beggars. He sunk sackfuls of it on
gardeners for his estates in Sheen. His former manor was not
far from the royal residence and appearances had to be
maintained. If the king wished to stay at the Guest Manor,
then it must be as well appointed as the king’s own. He
recalled one year when he harassed the tenants for their
rents early in order to supply his kitchens for the king and
his retinue. There was many a time he had nearly paupered
his own household in order to feed and house all of court.
But he had not complained, for this had been for the old
king, Edward of Windsor, King Richard’s grandfather. For the
old king, he would have done anything. Even commit treason
so that his son John of Gaunt and not his grandson Richard
could sit on the throne.
Alas. Those days were long, long gone. His lands had been
taken along with his knighthood, and the loyal tenants on
the Guest estates called another man their lord. Crispin
knew not who, nor did he care to know.
He glanced down at his own seedy coat and the sturdy cloak
that hid its shabby appearance from view. Yes, that was a
long time ago.
Flurries arrived with the waning sun and Crispin quickened
his step to keep warm. They followed the Strand now, heading
out of London toward the palace. The shops and houses did
not seem as crowded and the street opened onto a wider
avenue where the spindly trees of gardens could be spied
beyond the rooftops.
Crispin set his mind to the task at hand. What papers could
a Jew value so much that he would seek him out? He must be
desperate to venture from court, knowing that he would not
be welcomed outside of it. He almost laughed. And to seek a
man who was not allowed into court! A fine pair they were.
It was a simple theft, no doubt. Someone inquisitive about
the Jew. Perhaps it was stolen as a simple prank. That made
one of two possibilities: The papers were long gone,
destroyed. Or someone thought them valuable enough to try to
sell to a third party. If the latter was the case then they
still might yet be recovered. If the former, well, he’d take
his money from this Jew and be troubled by him and court no
more.
The freezing wind was angry, whipping off the white-capped
river, and shrieking down the alleys, whirling through the
lanes and taking with it the last brown leaves of an autumn
that was just a memory. Ice pelted Crispin’s face like tiny
shards of glass. He squinted into the weather, head ducked
down and encased in a hood that he wished for the thousandth
time had been lined with fur.
But even above the baying wind and the churning foam of the
river hissing against the stony embankment, Jack and Crispin
heard it at the same time. A plaintive cry from the
direction of the Thames. Crispin paused, wondering about it
when the sound lifted up into the cold afternoon a second
time. People on the street near the embankment stopped and
moved toward the edge. Crispin watched as some men scurried
down the bank and disappeared from view. Others took up the
cry and Crispin found himself running.
Men with poles were trying to pull something in. The Thames
wrestled with them, spitting icy water up into their faces,
dampening their stockings and boots with freezing water. It
wasn’t until Crispin pushed some onlookers out of the way
that he saw what it was the men were heaving onto the shore.
Hurrying down the embankment, Crispin helped pull up the
small form.
A boy. About Jack’s age.
Naked. Bruised. Dead.