When Crispin entered the old poulterer’s, the heavenly aroma of cooking food greeted him instead of the smell of chickens. Isabel Tucker tended to the fire and the meat pie baking in its pan beside it. Her apron could barely encompass her swollen belly and, as she straightened, one hand went to the small of her back, fingers digging in and kneading the muscle.
She had been barely seventeen when she’d married Jack last year and, though a slight thing, she had proved her worth carrying in the water and fuel, and never shirking hard labor. She possessed a wit that more than once offered Crispin and Jack a practical direction to follow on their rounds of investigating. Yes, she was an asset, right enough, though with a forthcoming babe she’d be too busy to intercede in their work again. More’s the pity, he thought. For those bright hazel eyes of hers would spark and light with a fact neither of them had spotted, though he was loath to give her too much credit.
‘Master Crispin,’ she said with a smile. She had freckles on her nose, but not as many as his ginger apprentice. ‘I’m glad you’re home for supper.’
‘As am I. It smells delightful.’
‘It’s just a bit of pork pie and pottage. Not as grand as it could be, but not as bland as it might have been.’
He hung his cloak by the door, and doffed his shoulder hood, hanging it beside the heavy mantle. ‘You are a miracle-maker with what little you have to work with.’
‘With two proud men to feed, I must do my best.’
‘And so you do. Is Master Tucker here?’
There was a clatter at the door as it was kicked open, and Jack, arms full, slipped through.
‘Speak of the devil,’ muttered Crispin.
Jack smiled. ‘Master! I have news. Look. Come see what I’ve brought.’
Crispin winked at Isabel and gave his apprentice his attention. Jack set the cradle down upon the floor.
‘Oh Jack, you got it!’ Isabel set her spoon hurriedly aside and rushed to the cradle, kneeling beside it. ‘Just look at that.’
‘Where did you come by it?’ asked Crispin.
‘I did a service for the furnager and he paid me in kind. He had this cradle, and since his wife and son had passed over a year ago – God rest them – he had no further need of it.’
‘That was enterprising of you.’
‘I try, master. It’s hard to spend good coin on such when we haven’t any to spare.’
‘It won’t always be so,’ Isabel said to him, and kissed his cheek. He reddened, and took her by the widened waist, though he had little to grab hold of these days.
‘But it is so for now, my love. How’s our boy? Is he still making a merry jig in there?’
She rubbed her belly and sighed. ‘Aye, he likes to rest while I work, and dance while I rest. You tell him to calm himself.’
Jack leaned over and spoke gently but firmly to her round belly. ‘Here now. Did you hear that, my lad? Your mother is weary and needs her rest. You take your ease when she sits, do you hear me?’
He smiled up at her and she grabbed his curly head in an embrace.
Crispin turned away from the domestic scene. Something in his heart ached with the sight of it. He was not a part of that intimate moment, though there were times when he was treated more as the patriarch of their little triad, rather than merely the master of the house.
When Crispin turned back, Jack had taken a spoon and dipped it into the pottage from the iron pot and lifted it to his pursed lips, blowing on it as he noisily slurped. ‘Is it ready, woman?’
‘It is. Bring the ewer for Master Crispin so he can wash his hands.’
Jack grabbed the basin and ladled some warm water from the other pot on the hob into the ewer, and with a towel draped over his arm, presented the basin to him. Crispin pushed up his sleeves and held his hands over the basin, while Jack poured the warmed water over his fingers.
Isabel had brought these niceties. In the intervening years between Crispin’s banishment from court and when he had met the boy, Crispin had set aside his courtly manners, even his prayers before eating. But Isabel insisted on it. At first, he had balked, but eventually he was pleased at her persistence. It was good to get back to the routine of a civilized life.
Jack followed suit, and set the ewer and basin by the fire. He sat opposite Crispin and waited as Isabel served. Upon her moving in after they had wed, both of them served Crispin and waited for him to eat before they partook. And, as proper as this was, it wasn’t expeditious, particularly if Crispin needed Jack in some pursuit of justice. It left the boy hungry and unfocused. Crispin had to put his foot down. The men were to eat. And if the men ate, then it sufficed that she would serve and then sit with them to eat as well. His insistence had made of them a strange family: servants and master, all together, as it had been with Jack alone. Sometimes the arrangement caused a twinge of discomfort, but sometimes – as it did now – he welcomed the feeling that seemed to fill that empty place in his soul that had stood by itself for so long.
Crispin sliced the fat but squat pork pie, laying a modest wedge on his bread slice, distributing wedges and pottage until they got their fill.
Chewing the last of his bread and wiping his hands on the tablecloth, Crispin glanced at the twilight sky visible through the shutter sitting ajar. ‘An excellent repast, Isabel, my dear. But Jack. I didn’t tell you about our own adventure tonight.’
‘Tonight, sir? What have we to do tonight? Did you get another client?’
‘Indeed, I did. A priest, Father Bulthius of St Modwen’s Church, near All Hallows by the tower. And you’ll never guess what he would have us do.’
‘Tell me.’
‘We are to watch and wait in the churchyard for walking corpses.’
Jack spit his beer across the table.
When Crispin looked up with distaste, Jack wiped his bearded chin with the tablecloth. ‘I’m sorry for that, master, but what did you say? Surely I didn’t hear you aright.’
‘You did. We are to watch for walking corpses, for he claims that in his churchyard, the dead walk again, like Lazarus; but then, like boys under curfew, return to their graves after their nightly ritual.’
Jack’s mouth hung open. Crispin hid his smile of amusement in his cup.
‘He thinks they’re bloodsuckers, for he found one with blood upon his face cloth.’
Jack snapped to his feet and looked desperately at a suddenly stilled Isabel. ‘Master, we can’t go on such an unholy vigil.’
‘And why not? The man paid me, after all.’
‘But Master Crispin, it isn’t anything a Christian should be doing after hours. It isn’t right, sir.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Jack. I don’t believe any of it for one moment.’
‘Oh.’ He sank down to his chair again.
‘But there is clearly something going on that vexes this priest, and so we must investigate. It’s near sunset now. We’ll be leaving presently. That will allow us to enjoy a bit more wine and digest our meal.’
Jack rubbed his belly. ‘I feel all queer inside now.’
‘It isn’t you with child, after all,’ he said with a chuckle.
Isabel rose and stacked the wooden bowls on the serving tray. She seemed to have shaken off her initial misgivings, and elbowed Jack. ‘You do as Master Crispin says. He’ll not let you fall into harm’s way.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Crispin cheerfully, tilting his chair on its back legs and sipping more wine. ‘I find the whole thing amusing and invigorating. What could it possibly be that has vexed this man so? I tell you, I cannot get it out of my head.’
‘Me neither,’ said Jack sullenly.
Crispin finished his wine slowly, watching Jack fidget and Isabel clean the bowls and plate. She dried it all with a towel and all was swiftly back in order. She threw more peat on the fire and sat in her chair before it, picking up her sewing again. He noticed she was repairing one of his stockings. Her needlework wasn’t as fine as some he had seen, but it was serviceable, and that was all he could expect these days.
‘Are you ready, Jack?’ he asked after a time.
Startled, Jack looked up. Eyes wide, he nodded. Crispin went to the door and donned his shoulder cape and hood. As he buttoned the mantle, he turned. ‘Well?’
The boy dragged himself to his feet and shuffled toward the door and his own cloak and hood. ‘If we don’t return, Isabel,’ he said solemnly, ‘go on to your uncle.’
Rolling his eyes, Crispin spun him toward the door. He looked back at Isabel in the firelight. Her face was drawn and seemed thin in the shadows cast over her features. He smiled to reassure. ‘He’s being overdramatic. We’ll return well after midnight. Don’t wait up.’
He saw the cast of relief in her eyes before he closed the door and slapped Jack’s ear. ‘Are you a fool? Why would you worry her so?’
‘Master, we’re off to see corpses walking abroad.’
‘I told you that it was foolishness. Now come along.’
The Tower of London was at the other end of the city and it would take a while to get there, particularly since they had to skirt the Watch. Only thieves were abroad at night, and Crispin never needed an excuse to get himself involved with the sheriffs.
He jabbed Jack with his elbow. ‘Stay alert for the Watch,’ he admonished.
Jack straightened and pulled his hood up over his head. The boy was tall, as tall if not a bit taller than Crispin, and huskier than he’d ever been. In fact, with Jack at his side these days, Crispin felt more at ease than he had in many years. Jack Tucker was a skilled fighter and strong enough where it mattered. The two of them were a formidable pair and, what’s more, all of London knew it. Crispin smiled. He didn’t truly fear the Watch, for it was more than likely that the Watch was skirting them.
He was able to enjoy the night, the stars peeking in and out of the cloud cover, wisping across the night sky between the tall buildings. The glittering stars marched ahead of them on a cloudy trail. The shops and houses were blue in the falling light. Only the wealthier houses had gleaming candles shining through glass windows. The rest were barred with shutters, with only a stripe or two of light. London was inside, sharing the hearth with family and servant. As he should have been doing. But, alas. A man had to make a living.
They made it up to Aldgate and cut over to a narrow lane. St Modwen’s was a stubby church with a single tower and arched entry. She was an old church of mossy stone, nearly by itself. Worn paths through the surrounding fields shone like white veins when the moonlight showed itself between the clouds. These were old, meandering paths from the dwindling houses at the outskirts of London that led directly to the parish church. And, all around it, sparse woodland. Though a lonely parish, as with all of God’s houses, there was comfort there within the stone. It shone with a single lantern within – the sanctuary lamp – through its tall, dark windows.
They walked up the few steps to the door and Crispin pushed them open. They yawned wide, their hinges expressing a laconic whine. The church was no warmer in its nave than it was outside in the night, but they followed the lantern light up the tiled path to the rood screen, its carvings creating a welcoming gate. They passed under the arch and nearly up to the altar, where a figure knelt before it, praying. He must have heard their steps and finally turned. The fear in his eyes was even greater now than before. Crispin rested his hand on his sword hilt.
‘You came.’ Father Bulthius seemed surprised at such a boon and rose, wringing his hands.
‘Of course I came. And I brought my apprentice, Jack Tucker.’
Jack bowed. ‘Father.’
‘You are most welcome, young man.’ He glanced back toward the crucifix and crossed himself. ‘Shall we go to this dread deed?’ He handed Jack a glass vessel. ‘Here is holy water.’ He clutched a silver crucifix which he showed to Crispin. ‘Now we are prepared.’
Jack clasped the holy water as if his life depended on it.
The priest led the way to a side door which opened out to the churchyard.
The moonlight painted the trees and gravestones with silver-blue. But the shadows it cast churned even Crispin’s imagination. The gnarled shapes of trees that stretched to horrific heights wove a tapestry of disquiet all around them. A rustling in the underbrush didn’t help. He knew it was mice or other night creatures, but the circumstances suddenly made much of nothing. Something winged overhead, and Jack ducked, releasing a squeaked curse. He apologized to the priest for it, but Bulthius didn’t seem to notice. He held his lantern aloft. It shook and rattled from the trembling of his hand.
Crispin cast about, narrowing his eyes into the darkness around them. A mist was rising, making distances foggy and shadows all that much more filled with omens. He found himself clutching his dagger hilt and, feeling foolish, released it, opening and closing his tensed hand.
The air smelled damp and earthy. Ears sharp, eyes searching, Crispin moved purposefully behind the priest, waiting. Perhaps that was the worst of it. The waiting. Was anything truly going to happen?
Abruptly, the priest stopped. He raised his arm and pointed. ‘Look!’ he rasped.
Crispin turned toward the direction of his pointing hand but saw nothing. Until there was movement in the distant mist. A sluggish figure with a heavy burden.
Jack gasped and took a step back, crossing himself vigorously, holy water pressed tight to his breast.
Crispin slowly drew his sword. ‘What manner of sorcery is this?’
A man was walking toward the field, dragging each step; on his back, a large object. Was it a coffin? Crispin wasn’t certain at that distance, but he wasn’t about to stand around wondering.
He stepped around the priest but Father Bulthius grabbed him and held him back. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to see what it is.’
‘I know what it is, Master Guest. It is the walking dead.’
Crispin gripped the sword tighter. ‘And so we shall see.’
‘Master, don’t go.’
You too, Jack? He gave his apprentice a disgusted sneer. ‘If you’re afraid, stay back.’
That prodded him. Jack visibly swallowed, screwed up his courage, and drew his knife. He pulled off the cork from the vessel with his teeth, and brandished the holy water with his other hand. They set off together, and perhaps not willing to be left behind, Bulthius trotted after them. Suddenly, the lantern winked out as the priest tripped and clattered to the ground.
The moonlight hid behind a crest of clouds, and the apparition vanished into the darkness. ‘God’s blood!’ Crispin swore. ‘Did you see in which direction it went?’
‘No, master. It just disappeared into the night.’
‘Forgive me, Master Guest.’ Bulthius brushed himself off and grabbed the lantern. The metal was battered and the candle within bent. ‘We’ll need a new flame.’ He trudged back toward the church, skirting around a crooked headstone when he suddenly stopped. ‘Bless me. Almighty Father, save us.’
Crispin came around the stone and saw the empty grave. It looked as if it was dug that day, the piles of dirt on either side of it. And, on closer examination, something heavy had been dragged out of it, collapsing the side of the perfectly rectangular hole. Something heavy … like a coffin.
‘This proves nothing.’ He sputtered when he was hit in the face with something wet. Scowling, he glared at Tucker.
‘Sorry, master. I was just sprinkling the grave.’ He held up the vessel of holy water.
‘This was a funeral today?’ he asked the priest.
Bulthius slowly shook his head. ‘No, good master. At least a sennight ago.’
Crispin glared at the empty grave, almost blaming it for its empty state. He pressed a fist to his hip. ‘Was it a wealthy man?’
‘Yes. He left a large sum to our chantry.’
‘Then that is your answer. A grave robbery.’
‘But … the whole grave? Why would anyone wish to steal everything, coffin and all?’
That was unusual, and Crispin bit his lip, pondering. Usually the grave was opened and the body only disturbed enough to steal jewelry and weaponry. Certainly no one desired the body. Unless there was some sort of evil witchery involved.
He glanced back at the last place he saw the trudging figure. ‘Jack, stay here.’
‘Not on your life, sir.’
Crispin hurried toward the mist. He felt better with a blade in his hand and Jack beside him. He kept his ears open and eyes sharp, scanning the churning fog. His head turned this way and that, listening, fooling himself with suddenly looming shadows of trees and rocks. He gestured to Jack to stop and they both listened.
Was that the slow progress of a tread?
Listening hard offered nothing more.
The moon slid out from the clouds long enough for Crispin to look around, finally seeing the outline of trees, a stone wall, a headstone … but no figure. He crouched down to examine the mud. ‘Jack,’ he whispered. ‘Look here.’
Jack got in close beside him, and with the moon shining over their shoulders, Crispin pointed out the footsteps in the mud … and something heavy being dragged behind it.
‘God have mercy,’ Jack gasped.