The Demon's Parchment (11 page)

Crispin rolled his shoulder. His arm began to throb where that cur Julian stabbed him. Maybe he should have allowed the Jew to put on his wretched poultice.

Lancaster sighed and shook his head. Raising a hand to his temple he lowered himself to one of the chairs before the fire. “Crispin, Crispin.” Gaunt’s back was to him and it was only that dark head of hair over the top of the chair’s back that Crispin could see. “How did we get here, you and I?” he asked softly.

He grasped his wounded arm and cradled it. “Because you are right,” he replied, just as quietly. “I could not let it lie.”

Lancaster raised his hand and motioned him to the other chair.

He hesitated. Would Lancaster help him after all, or was there more lecture to be endured?

In the end it didn’t matter. Crispin wanted to sit beside him, wanted to soak up all the time he could with his former mentor. But he was not so much of a fool to let his guard down. Warily, he made his way to the other chair and gently sat. He stared at the man’s profile for a long time. The hearth glow wove a pattern of dark and light over his pallid cheek, tipping the mustache with gold.

“Have your servant serve us wine, Crispin. It’s chilly.”

He turned to where Jack cowered in the corner and the boy suddenly stood to attention, looking for the flagon. He found it on the sideboard and filled two cups, serving Lancaster with a trembling hand. Crispin took the other from Jack and drank a bit of it before setting it aside. He had already had too much in the physician’s chamber. He needed a clear head with Lancaster.

He watched the older man drink as he slowly sipped the fragrant liquor. Dammit, but he missed living at court! He missed the intrigues, the news, the day-to-day minutiae intimated to him in shadowed corners and even darker bedchambers.

He missed . . . this.

Crispin cleared his throat and asked the question he’d been trying to forget. “Yesterday . . . I heard that the king granted my . . . my lands to Giles de Risley.”

Lancaster’s face did not change. He blinked slowly. “That is true.”

“Why?”
He knew his voice sounded petulant but he could not restrain himself. “Why give it to him?”

“To punish you for refusing his benevolence,” he said. “All of court knows that you and de Risley were rivals of a sort. Richard thought this meant that you were enemies. His hate of you is deep. I can only guess that he knew you would somehow discover it. You should be pleased that it is at least in the hands of a friend.”

Crispin slumped, eyes distantly watching the flames. “But after so long. My
home,
” he murmured.

“Come now, Crispin. It has not been your home for some time. No use weeping over the past. You are the last man I expected of that. You had your chance when the king offered to give you back your name
and
your lands. Why did you refuse?”

He wouldn’t look at Lancaster. “You know why.”

The man huffed a sound and sat back in his chair. “Yes, I know.”

They sat in silence for a time until Crispin sighed. “I need a way to get into the palace.”

“Don’t you rather need a way to get
out
of it?”

“God’s blood!” he swore softly. “That, too. But my lord. I will need to return. I . . . I am loath to ask for your help—”

“No you’re not. You’re no fool, after all. Much evidence to the contrary.”

Silence again.

Lancaster sighed. “By the saints, Crispin. How you put me in these situations I’ll never—”

A knock on the door made them both swivel their heads.

“Uncle John?” came the all too familiar voice that stilled Crispin’s heart.

“The king!” hissed Lancaster.

Crispin shot to his feet. Lancaster motioned to an alcove where an arras hung on an iron rod before it. Crispin rushed behind the tapestry just as the door opened. He tried to make himself as small as he could. God only knew where Jack was.

“Uncle John?” said Richard, coming into the room. “I heard you talking.” He stopped.

Jack,
Crispin thought with a curse. Crispin heard someone scrabbling across the floor and a shorter form tossed the arras aside, nearly revealing Crispin. Jack looked up at him with fear rounding his eyes.

Wonderful. This day was getting better and better.

“I wanted to discuss the move to Sheen for Advent, Uncle,” said Richard. “I favor arriving on the Feast of Saint Nicholas.” Crispin couldn’t help himself. He very carefully moved the arras aside just enough to spy the room beyond it. Richard sported a wispy beard and mustache, not quite fully formed on his seventeen-year-old chin. He moved to the chairs by the fire and, with sparkling rings, fingered the second cup of wine.

Damn.

An eyebrow rose and Richard lifted his face to his uncle, eyes darting about the room, but he said nothing. Crispin let the arras fall back just as Richard cast an eye to the alcove. He cringed behind it wondering what he should do now. He could fall on his own dagger, he supposed. Dash his head against the stone wall, perhaps?

“Mayhap it is too late in the evening to discuss this now,” said Richard. His voice was coming closer to Crispin’s alcove. Crispin braced himself even as Jack traced a cross over his own forehead, eyes firmly shut, lips moving silently.

“You seem to be otherwise occupied,” Richard continued. “And I thought your lady wife was elsewhere this night.”

“She is, your grace.”

“Oh?” By the sound of his voice, he was standing directly before the tapestry. Crispin expected it to be whisked open at any moment. He held his breath. He could not reach for his dagger as he itched to do. This was the king, after all. He would have to submit to anything Richard demanded.

The king made an impatient sound. “I do not approve,” he said quietly, “of that Swynford woman.”

Gaunt sputtered but said nothing. Crispin well knew why. It was an open secret that the duke had had an ongoing dalliance with Katherine Swynford for the past decade. She had been the governess to Gaunt’s daughters, and when her husband died they had grown close. Crispin had even talked with Lancaster once about it in disapproving
tones. He could still feel the lump he received on his head for his trouble.

“The sanctity of the marriage bond must not be compromised,” said Richard in a courtly tenor. “The Lady Constance deserves better.”

“Forgive me, sire,” said Gaunt, his voice tight. “But this is not the crown’s affair.”

“Is it
your
affair, Uncle? Of course it is. But any form of scandal in my court cannot be tolerated. May I suggest,” he said walking away from the arras, “that she not accompany us to Sheen for Christmas.”

There was a long pause until Gaunt finally said, “As you wish, sire.”

“Well then.” Crispin heard Richard take a seat and settle in. God’s blood! Was he
ever
to get out of the palace this night?

“I want my barons there. But I do not wish to discuss any weighty matters while in residence, Uncle John. I rely on you to keep my counselors at bay. I want the queen to enjoy herself. And she cannot do so when my brow is furrowed. No, this is the season for joviality. And with God’s blessings, we might at last have an heir to look forward to. I’ve paid enough for that damnable Jewish physician. Let us hope he is worth his salt.”

Lancaster still said nothing. Richard must have gestured for his own wine, because Lancaster tugged at the arras, showing his reddened face to Crispin and Jack. “Boy, serve the wine.”

Jack gave Crispin a desperate look before he was dragged from the alcove by the duke. Crispin heard his stumbling steps as he retrieved the wine for the king.

“God’s wounds, Uncle John. Where by the blessed Mother did you get this wretched child to serve you? He looks like a beggar.”

“Hmpf,” said Lancaster. They fell silent as they drank.

“Come, boy,” said Richard. “More wine. And do try not to spill it on my shoes this time. I could have you skinned and made into my slippers.”

Crispin cringed when he heard wine splattering on the floor. Jack choked out a sob.

“Now, now, Nephew. You’re frightening the child. There, there. I’ll take that. Go back to your cot.”

Jack scurried around the tapestry, his hands over his face. He was trembling, and Crispin put his arm around his shoulders to calm him.

“An unusual locale for your beggar servant, Uncle John. I do not recall a cot being there before.”

“My lady wife often changes the arrangements in these lodgings, sire. I can barely keep up.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you should keep the tapestries open. After all,
you
rule your household, do you not?”

“I prefer them closed, sire.”

“Do you? Are there more servants you would shield from me, Uncle?”

“Not at all. I have no secrets from you, Nephew.”

“No? Then open that tapestry.”

Crispin flattened himself against the wall. He and Jack exchanged grim expressions.

Steps approached and the duke grasped the arras. Crispin held his breath. He stared at the flat, smooth nails on Gaunt’s fingers, the golden rings gleaming with a cold light.

Fingers tensed on the thick cloth, ready to throw it back when Richard said lightly, “Never mind.” The duke’s hand stayed. But Crispin saw the merest tremble in the cloth. “It’s late,” Richard went on in a satisfied tone.
Did Richard never tire of games?
thought Crispin. But even as the king scowled at the heavy drapery, he confirmed Crispin’s judgment of him when he said, “Unless you care for a game of chess?”

“Is the queen abed, then?” asked Lancaster, voice steady.

As expected, he heard Richard rise immediately. “Perhaps I should get back to her. She does hate these English winters. She is
convinced there is a draft in her chamber. I can find no evidence of it. But women can be foolish.”

Lancaster remained silent.

The king’s steps retreated to the door. Lancaster walked in longer strides to head him off and opened it for him. Richard paused. “Good night, Uncle. And heed my advice. Do not soil your marriage bed with a momentary dalliance. Take heart from my example. I dote on my wife and she is ever loyal to me. Never give your spouse cause to betray you.”

“Yes, sire. That is good advice. God give you rest.”

The door whined wider for an instant before it closed with a solid thud.

Crispin waited. He knew Lancaster would need a moment to compose himself. With a racing heart, Crispin realized he needed a moment as well.

The arras was cast aside and Gaunt glowered down. “Get you and your miserable servant out of my sight!”

“Gladly, your grace. And what of my return?”

“Damn you, Crispin. Don’t you know when to surrender?”

He shuffled his feet. “The murders, my lord, of innocent children. They were found floating in the Thames. Defiled and mutilated. I cannot let it lie. I won’t.”

“Children? You never said anything about children. When? How?”

So now you ask.
“I would have mentioned it before, my lord, but you seemed reluctant to talk to me.”

“And so I am. But this is a different matter. Children, you say?”

“Yes. Four since Michaelmas.”

“Four?” He seemed genuinely appalled. Crispin heartened. He knew he had won. “Why have I heard nothing of this?”

“I am . . . surprised you did not know.”

“These sheriffs keep their tongues cleaved to their mouths.” Lancaster stroked his mustache. His eyes wandered and landed
on the tear-streaked Jack. “I suppose . . . you will need a way back in.”

Crispin stood before him, his hand still firmly pressed to Jack’s heaving shoulder as the boy tried to master his emotions.

“Perhaps,” said the duke, eyes toward the fire, “I shall send livery to you. Do you still reside . . . where you did before?”

Crispin snorted. The man could not even bring himself to say “the Shambles.” “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Then we shall send it to you there. Handle it with care, Guest. You see how close the king is.”

“Indeed.”

“Then go. Take your boy and begone.” Crispin bowed and Jack followed suit, still trembling and sniffling. He reached the door when the duke called out to him. “Crispin,” he said. The hearth flared behind him, throwing his shadow across the floor toward the door as if it were fleeing. His voice met Crispin at the doorposts. “Be careful.”

He looked at Lancaster, thinking for not the first time that this might be the last instance he set eyes upon him. He bowed again. “Always, my lord.”

He opened the door a crack and looked out, wishing that the cressets were extinguished. Darkness would have helped. He pushed his hood up, pulled Jack’s up over his head, and yanked the dazed boy with him into the corridor.

He kept his head down, his cloak tight around him, and nearly dragged Jack through the long corridors. A guard stood at one archway but there was no one by the door of St. Stephen’s chapel. Since the way to the Great Hall was effectively blocked, he decided that the better part would be to go through the chapel and out the cloister.

They slipped in. The chapel was dark and only the merest moonlight shined on the tall, narrow bands of stained-glass windows
in the apse. Stealing across the checkered floor, Crispin stumbled into the frozen form of Jack, stalled in the center of the nave.

When he looked down, he saw the boy’s eyes slowly rise up the tall columns to the vaulted ceiling with its painted stars, the rows of shields on either side, the jeweled stained glass giving color to the dark gray of the chapel. His shiny lips hung open, jaw slack as his gaze rose and rose. Though at any other instance Crispin might be pleased to give Jack a tour, now was definitely
not
the time.

He pushed at his shoulder. “Come along,” he whispered, just enough to urge the boy’s feet and set him to moving again.

They escaped into a passage between the cloister and the chapel that led to an outer door and they crept into the shadows of the gardens along the banks of the Thames until they reached a wall and climbed it to the outer courtyard. They walked brusquely to the main gate and down the lane toward Charing Cross. No one stopped them. No one questioned them. No one raised the alarm.