‘God’s blood!’ cried Crispin, shooting to his feet, knocking his chair over. ‘Where did this come from? Jack?’
Crispin snatched it from the shelf and shoved it toward his apprentice. Jack stared at it. ‘I dunno, sir. Isabel?’
She looked at it curiously. ‘I found it lying on the floor, Master Crispin. I thought it was something you had brought in. I put it on yon shelf.’
Clutching it in his fingers, he sank slowly to a chair. He placed it carefully on the table. ‘This is the missing relic of St Modwen,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I first found it in Christopher Walcote’s room this morning.’
Abbot William knelt beside the table, grabbing its edge to steady himself. ‘Then what’s it doing here?’
‘I asked again of Christopher if he had stolen it, presented with the evidence, but he seemed just as surprised as Martin Chigwell to see it.’
‘What was Martin Chigwell doing there?’ asked Jack.
Crispin glared at him. ‘Take aim on the more important part of my story, Jack. This relic!’ He gestured at it. ‘I was convinced that neither of them had taken it, and with the idea to further investigate it, I put it there in my scrip’ – he pointed to the obviously empty bag hanging by the door – ‘with the intention of returning it to Madam Horne, and when I was standing before the woman, it wasn’t in my scrip at all. I thought it must have fallen out, so I went back to the Walcote’s courtyard garden.’
‘And … did you find it there?’ asked the abbot.
‘No. I returned to you, Jack, with an empty scrip.’
‘Surely you must be mistaken.’ The abbot gestured to the cow. ‘For here it is.’
‘It must have been in your scrip all this time,’ said Isabel. ‘You just didn’t see it.’
Jack curved his arm around Isabel. ‘It’s them relics,’ said Jack in a hushed tone.
Crispin grabbed it again, ignoring the abbot’s gasp, and stared hard at it. ‘Very well, St Modwen. What have you to say for yourself?’
Everyone stilled … until a spark exploded in the fire and they all yelled.
‘God have mercy!’ cried Isabel. ‘Maybe, Master Crispin, you should return it then.’
‘Jack, fetch me my scrip.’
‘In all haste, sir.’ Jack hurried in stumbling steps to the bag and handed it over with a shaky hand.
Without a pause, Crispin shoved it deep within the leather satchel, and closed the flap, tying it down. He draped it across his chest, over his shoulder and stood. ‘My Lord Abbot, Jack: will you accompany me to the Horne household?’
They both nodded warily, and gave Crispin a wide berth.
They walked through the quieting streets of London. The day was still with them, being summer, but business obeyed a different sweep of the gnomon. Shops were being shuttered, drovers were returning to their fields, and weary shopkeepers were joining their families in a late supper.
Crispin’s band made it to Mercery and the porter simply waved Crispin through. When he knocked on the door, Hull answered and pressed his lips tight upon seeing Crispin. ‘What is it now, Master Guest?’
Before he spoke, Crispin felt the bulging scrip. ‘I have something to give to Madam Horne.’
The expression on his face seemed to say, Are you certain this time? But he said nothing. Instead, he let them in but, instead of leading them to the parlor, had them wait in the entryway.
They waited for what seemed like an hour. Crispin slipped his hand inside the scrip with his fingers resting on the reliquary.
Madam Horne came striding from a shadowed doorway, her hands pressed tightly together before her. ‘Master Guest. And a cleric?’
Hull stumbled over the introductions and Crispin came to the rescue. ‘This is the Abbot of Westminster, William de Colchester.’
She curtseyed and returned her stern gaze to Crispin. ‘What is it, Master Guest? It must be important to disturb the household’s meal.’
‘It is. I thought that you would at least be contented with the return of your relic.’ He pulled free the red cow and presented it to her with a bow.
Gasping, she took it with trembling hands. ‘You finally got it out of that boy!’
‘No, madam. It was found … er, near the house.’
‘Well, I don’t care. It is back. My Lord Abbot, will you have the honor of placing it back where it belongs?’
‘Well, I …’ Looking toward Crispin, he seemed to decide on his own. ‘Yes, certainly.’ He shook out his sleeves to cover his hands, took the small reliquary and held it before him. ‘Where …?’
‘Up the stairs to the solar. Robert! Gather the household. We will place it back in the solar with celebration.’
‘Yes, madam.’ Hull hurried to comply.
In the meantime, Abbot William slowly progressed toward the stairs. Jack was moving forward before Crispin put his arm across his chest and held him back. Madam Horne followed the abbot and then the household slowly gathered, following them. From below, Crispin counted and assessed the number of people, seeing Clarice but not Nesta.
‘Are we not to go up?’ asked Jack.
‘Not unless you want to.’
Jack shuddered. ‘Not particularly.’
They waited. It seemed that the full complement of the Horne household was now in attendance in and outside the solar, for there were so many – both servant and apprentice – that not all could fit in the modest room.
‘While the others are occupied,’ said Crispin quietly, ‘let us look at the place where Master Horne was killed.’
‘But sir,’ said Jack, following after Crispin’s stealthy advance. ‘We don’t know which is his bedchamber.’
‘I think I can make an educated guess.’
Up the stairs they went and stood on the gallery. Abbot William began to intone some prayer that they all responded to with bowed heads. Crispin moved to the left of the assembled household and found a large room with an equally large four-poster bed with resplendent curtains around it.
‘Blind me,’ cooed Jack. ‘Now that’s a bedchamber.’
‘Indeed.’
‘You’ll probably tell me it’s still smaller than the one you used to have.’
Crispin sneered. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything of the kind.’
‘Is it, though?’
With a world-weary sigh, he nodded.
Jack smiled. ‘Good. I’m glad yours was bigger.’
Crispin couldn’t help but paint a lopsided smile on his face. ‘You have the strangest sense of humor, Tucker.’
The room was like any other bedchamber, with a tall window of glass, a table with a rug over it, chairs with cushions, a sturdy stone fireplace, a curtained alcove for a servant, candelabras, an ambry, two coffers. Every stick of furniture was carved and made of fine, dark wood. A tapestry hung on one wall, a painted mural covered the other. A cabinet with a stool, no doubt, and other decorative pieces here and there, including a silver ewer and basin, and a silver wine decanter and carved horn goblets. The floor was painted in a chequy pattern.
Crispin crossed to the window and looked down. A stone courtyard below and beyond that the garden. The drapery was heavy and embroidered. He moved to the bed and looked beneath it. No truckle. That led his eye to the alcove. He walked to the niche and tossed the curtains aside. A small ledge where a bedroll was curled into its corner. The servant, if servant there was, certainly served elsewhere during the day. There was a door in the back of it. Crispin pushed on it but it was locked. It likely led through a passage putting it at the end of the gallery or down a stairwell toward the kitchens. It was very much like a lord’s chamber. The rich styled themselves so. It would not be out of place in an alderman’s house.
Jack peered into the alcove. ‘Blind me, Master Crispin. Could the killer have used this?’
‘Very likely.’
‘How are we to discover that?’
‘Carefully, I should think.’
Jack planted his hands at his hips. ‘You don’t know, do you?’
Crispin merely raised a brow.
Jack smacked his own forehead. ‘That’s how you appear so clever. You let everyone think you know, but you really don’t.’
‘That’s not entirely true.’ He smiled. ‘But it is mostly true.’
‘Well, then. I, too, can easily be a Tracker.’ He raised his chin and caricatured one of Crispin’s inscrutable facial configurations.
Crispin playfully flicked the boy’s temple. ‘As long as you keep a neutral expression, Jack. It works wonders.’
Grinning, Jack commenced examining the rest of the room, looking for more secret portals and hiding places. ‘I don’t suppose it matters where exactly he fell.’
‘It might.’
‘Martin Chigwell likely knows all the passages, sir. Any young man would have explored them.’
‘I am aware of that, Jack.’
‘You haven’t ruled him out, then?’
‘No.’
‘But you said that he was relieved that Christopher Walcote didn’t do it.’
‘Jack, men have lied to me before. Frequently.’
‘That’s certainly true. And he is the likeliest. Plausible impossibilities should be preferred to unconvincing possibilities …’
‘What are you doing in here?’
They both turned to find the red-faced Madam Horne in the doorway.
Crispin bowed and Jack followed suit. ‘I hoped to examine the room where Master Horne was killed.’
‘Get out.’
‘This is the room, is it not?’
‘I said get out!’
But Crispin stood his ground. He could feel Jack’s agitation behind him. ‘And where, madam, was he found?’
She strode into the room, hauled back her arm, and slapped his face. It only slightly turned his head but he returned it forward to gaze at her squarely. ‘Perhaps you don’t understand me, madam.’
She wound up to strike him again when he caught it. Bosom heaving, face as red as a crab apple, she opened her mouth in astonishment. He tightened his grip and she stared at her wrist, purpling under his fingers. ‘I do not like to be struck, madam. Especially in the course of my serious work. I will ask again. Where was it that he fell?’
She yanked her wrist free of him and rubbed it. With her mouth tightly shut, she pointed with the reddened wrist toward the place before the bed, almost the middle of the room.
Crispin bowed. ‘Thank you, madam. And where did you find Christopher Walcote?’
Without a word, she pointed to a spot before the place where Horne had died near the chamber door.
‘Was he facing the door?’
‘Yes.’ The word was clipped, her attitude stony. ‘Master Guest,’ she said stiffly. ‘You are not welcomed into this house further.’
‘Noted. And yet, I will have to return to investigate.’
‘I forbid it.’
‘I have the leave of the sheriffs, Madam Horne. This is a murder, after all.’
‘But the boy did it!’
‘No, he didn’t. Someone else did. And I have every reason to believe it is someone in this household. So you will not bar me. Is that understood?’
She said nothing, but her eyes bulged with unspoken frustration.
Crispin whirled away from her and strode out of the room without looking back. Jack ran to catch up.
‘You’ve made an enemy,’ he whispered to Crispin’s back as they stomped down the stairs.
‘She’s just another in a long line of them.’
They waited at the foot of the stairs as the servants filed past him, each giving him and Jack a lengthy stare.
Clarice hurried past but was unable to escape Crispin’s darting hand. He grabbed her arm even as she tried to squirm out of his grip.
‘Clarice. Has Nesta returned? I need to speak with her most urgently.’
‘I haven’t seen her.’
‘Interesting. She is most truantly in her duties. Does Master Hull know?’
‘Shhhh!’ she hissed. ‘Please don’t tell him. He’ll be just as cross with me. He thinks I’m trying to cover for her, but I’m not. I’m just as angry she isn’t here.’
‘You said she was seeing someone near All Hallows. Who is it?’
‘His name is Oliver. But I don’t trust him. He never shows his face around here. Maybe there is no one. Maybe she’s lying.’
‘Then what other reason would she have to sneak away?’
‘I don’t know. It’s always a man, isn’t it? I wish I had a man to sneak off to.’ She eyed Jack suddenly. Jack straightened and fidgeted with his knife sheath.
Crispin made an incremental step in front of him. ‘Does she have family in London?’
Clarice shook her head. ‘None left. She’s been in service here almost as long as I have. Since we were children.’
‘If you see her, tell her that she must come to me. I’m on the Shambles—’
‘At an old poulterer’s,’ she said sullenly. ‘Everyone knows that.’
She nodded and curtseyed, and hurried away under the stern eye of Hull. He gave Crispin a dismissive turn of his shoulder, before Crispin decided that they’d best leave as soon as possible.
They waited outside for the abbot, and he shuffled hastily across the courtyard toward them. ‘This is all very strange,’ he said, pulling his cowl up over his head. ‘I have seen many household shrines but this one … struck me as odd.’
‘In what way?’ said Crispin, leading the way beyond the mercer’s gate. He couldn’t help but glance toward the Walcote house. His stomach was growling and he wanted to return home to the supper that Isabel had laid out.
‘The people usually have great reverence for such a thing. It is a very great gift to have a saint’s relic in one’s house.’ He wagged a finger at Crispin. ‘As much as you might despise the very thought.’
‘I have never used such a harsh term, Abbot William.’
‘Well … the sentiment is certainly there. Never mind. What I wish to say is that it was not the occasion it was meant to be. Such an object and it was lost and suddenly returned. One would think there would be much rejoicing. But that was simply not the case. Oh, the mistress of the house was much overjoyed at its return, but the others … It seemed more that it was taking up their time.’
‘A servant’s lot,’ said Jack, speaking carefully. ‘We don’t always have the time to take, Lord Abbot. When something must be prepared or done as the master wished it, he don’t want to hear any excuses.’
The abbot patted Jack’s arm as they turned the corner at the Shambles. ‘I quite understand, Master Tucker. Yet even servants are glad at the presence of one of the Lord’s favored. These were not. Ah, it is just a feeling. A small observation.’
‘Perhaps an important one,’ said Crispin. ‘I will think on it.’
They arrived at the poulterer’s and greeted Isabel, who had kept warming cloths over the dishes.
Later, they left the warm and homey companionship of Crispin’s household for the little church in All Hallows. Crispin was quiet and thoughtful as they walked, gravel crunching under his boots. Even as he lifted his face to the twilit sky, inhaled the fresh breeze that blew through London’s streets and bore away the smells of the Shambles, he pondered. Two murders occupied his thoughts. The one certainly had nothing to do with the other. Yet for the one, there was a time limit, for he was worried about Christopher. He had confessed to murder, and that was something not easily forgotten. The judges would not forget it; neither would any jury, who were likely already deciding even before the trial. Would he lose his son having only just found him?
He glanced toward Abbot William. Should he tell the abbot about these tidings? It wouldn’t likely help, and it would change nothing. For Clarence Walcote acknowledged the boy as his own, and that was the best course, the only course. There were always bastards being born to nobility. It wasn’t an uncommon thing. Lancaster had them. His longtime mistress Katherine Swynford bore the duke’s bastards, but she was widowed when they were born. He could acknowledge them and they lived well because of it. But this was a merchant’s son, a London alderman. What could Crispin offer? Only shame to the boy and his mother. The lad might even be disinherited. It wasn’t worth the cost. And the boy wouldn’t thank him.
No. It was better he kept silent. Jack knew. Isabel knew only because Jack was keen not to keep such secrets from his wife, but he didn’t fear they would say anything. It was only his own vanity that made him want to speak of it, to show the world he could father a son.
Yet every dog could do as much.
And as far as Philippa was concerned, he dared not be in the same room with her, for he burned, and so did she. Any further congress would lead to sin and they both vowed not to indulge. For the first time in his life, he questioned the need to satisfy his honor.
He’d burn that little portrait of her he coveted. It had been foolish to keep it this long. Now it was dangerous to have it in his possession.
‘Sir?’
He suddenly realized Jack had been speaking to him. ‘What was that, Jack?’
‘I said what are we to do when we reach the church?’
‘Same as before. We shall find a place to hide and watch his grave. And we’d best keep an eye on Horne’s grave as well.’
‘But what of the holy water? The bishop locked the church door, said it was unconsecrated.’
‘Holy water is holy water, Jack. Er … is that not so, Abbot William?’
‘Holy water is a sacramental and remains forever in that state. Its blessing cannot “expire”. Just as a rosary remains a sacred object, as well as a … reliquary.’
‘And yet a church can expire,’ said Jack bitterly. Crispin smiled indulgently at his apprentice. Even after all he had seen, all he had experienced in his life, Jack was a staunchly devout man. Jack was not tainted by his thieving past, nor by his brief time in a brothel as a child. Crispin knew that while he languished in Purgatory with all his sins, he’d have to wait till Jack came along to get him out.
‘It is a loathly thing,’ said the abbot, shaking his head, not for the first time today. ‘All those souls awaiting resurrection in what was once sacred ground … It is just as bad a crime as murder, for their souls seem to have been murdered as well. And for what? So the church can sell the land for profit? For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’
‘But what can one do, my lord?’ said Crispin. ‘I have a feeling there is no arguing with the bishop if he is determined.’
‘Oh, determined he is. I have dealt with his like all the years of my adult life while serving God. I have conversed with cardinals of a like mind, with clerics from Rome to the edge of civilization. When men reach a certain rank …’ He stopped himself and suddenly stared at Crispin. ‘Well … you well know it, don’t you, Master Guest? Sometimes to be so high is to forget where you came from, and its purpose. You yourself forswore your oaths to commit treason—’
‘It was no light decision, my lord, I assure you,’ he rasped. ‘I knew well what I was doing, and considered the very matter you assume I had forgotten. For I was only thinking of my tenants, my fellow citizens of London, of all England. It was not for me and my vanity, though well you may think it. If you must constantly throw it in my face, at least know the truth of it.’
Breathing hard, he scowled at the abbot a long time before he swung his face away. Damn Abbot William for incessantly bringing it up, and damn Crispin himself for ever contemplating treason in the first place.
‘I see I have been too flippant and too quick to judge,’ said the abbot calmly, though there was an edge to his voice this time. ‘I had always assumed that to put Lancaster on the throne would be advantageous to you. And so it would have been. But perhaps I have mistaken your motives. And I am sorry if I have done so.’
Crispin grunted his reply.
‘And I also see how you have taken your disgrace to heart, for indeed, you could very well have left London, left England itself for its enemies abroad, and in your thirst for vengeance, fought against your homeland. But you did none of those things, and I must conclude that your motives were as you say they were. I myself cannot fathom doing as you did … but then again, I have not put myself in your shoes as our Lord urged us to do, and for that, I do heartily beg your mercy.’
Nodding, Crispin glanced his way. ‘Even a confessor cannot know entirely what is in a man’s heart. If you wondered if I do penance, I do it every day just by being alive … in London.’
‘I shall never underestimate you again.’
Softening, Crispin offered him a smile. ‘Only at your peril, my lord. Especially at the chessboard.’
The abbot’s face, so solemn in his confession, brightened marginally. He nodded, and turned toward the road again. There was just one curve before they spied the darkened church. Even the sanctuary lamp was now dark.
Except there was a light within. And it was moving.