1
The rain didn’t bother him, even though London’s rain fell thicker and harsher than country rain. Full of the city’s stench, the drizzle descended in matted wires, pricking the skin. Crispin’s leather hood took the brunt of it. The beaded water ran off his head in long rivulets and pooled at his feet. The cloak did not fare as well, and clung in heavy, wet drapery to his shivering shoulders.
Even this didn’t bother him.
What bothered him was standing in this unholy rain while a mere servant boldly appraised him as if he were a stable boy or a tradesman; looked Crispin up and down from his shabby knee-length cotehardie to his patched stockings.
The manservant’s face, square and strong, spoke of country stock rather than those hard faces etched by city living. “What do you want?” the servant asked after his prolonged assessment.
Crispin leaned forward. “What I
The servant hesitated before bowing derisively with a “right this way, my lord” that had nothing of respect in it.
They entered a wide hall. Murals of hardworking dyers and weavers decorated both the plaster walls and rich tapestries. The friendly aroma of dried lavender and rosemary censed the cold rooms. The scent reminded Crispin of his long-lost manor in Sheen. Much the same finery adorned those halls and passageways. But that had been some eight long years ago, when he was still a knight.
They came to a door and the servant took a key from his belt. Once they passed through the archway, he stopped, locked the door behind him, and proceeded on.
Crispin watched and frowned. He wanted to ask but doubted he would get an answer. Instead, he simply observed the strange ritual repeated until they climbed a staircase and reached the warm solar. Why would the interview be conducted in the solar? Business discussions usually took place in the parlor. The intimate setting of the solar suited a family’s more private society. Crispin shrugged it off as another eccentricity of his wealthy host.
The servant opened the solar’s door. White plaster walls were swathed about the room with arcs of rich, blue drapery hanging mid-height by pegs. A large, carved buffet stood against one wall, reaching almost to dark ceiling beams marching in a row toward a large window, under which sat a heavy, carved table with parchments and leather-bound accounting ledgers spread across it.
The servant bowed perfunctorily. “My master will be in anon.” He turned sharply and then stopped, leaning in toward Crispin. “Don’t touch anything.” He grinned at Crispin’s narrowed eyes and left without locking the door behind him.
Crispin tugged at his tailored coat and sneered in the direction of the receding footsteps. He glanced at the lock and traced his finger around the black iron lock plate. New. And this one only bolted from the inside. Surely the solar was important enough to lock from the outside as well.
He strolled to the fire, luxuriating in its glowing warmth. The hearth, large, almost too big for the room, stood as tall as Crispin. The mantel boasted arms of the mercer’s guild chiseled into the stone. “Merchant in cloth,” Crispin snorted. He glanced again around the fine room of silver candlesticks and expensive furnishings, and nodded shrewdly. “I am in the wrong profession.” He stared at the flagon across the room and licked his lips.
Last night he wondered at such a summons and felt a little trill in his belly. If all went well, this would surely be the richest client of his four-year career, and he needed that fee. The rent was overdue again and he owed Gilbert and Eleanor Langton a lengthy tavern bill as well. Where did the money go? Funny how it had never occurred to him how hard it was to make a living until he had to do it himself.
The door burst open and Crispin instinctively came to attention and faced his wealthy host. The man strode in, his shoulders almost as wide as the doorway. He took command of the space as a general takes command of the field, locking his eyes on Crispin before sweeping his gaze warily around the room. Crispin smiled in spite of himself. There was little doubt in Crispin’s mind that such a man was used to barking orders and having them immediately obeyed. It was something Crispin appreciated. Something he had enjoyed himself in years gone by. But this man, this prosperous merchant, was not destined to take his place on any battlefield. His arena was commerce and his soldiers his bolts of cloth.
Crispin looked him over as well, trying to assess the man beneath the confident exterior. On second examination, the man did not appear to have the muscled heft of a mason or smith, but instead the corpulence of a man of leisure. His nut brown fleshy face crinkled at the eyes and met a tidy beard touched by gray. His deep green houppelande made of rich velvet and trimmed with miniver reached to just below his knees. The foliated sleeves touched the floor, and the stiff collar stood up straight and neatly covered the back of a beefy neck. He wore two gold chains across his wide breast as well as a dagger with a gem-encrusted hilt and a decorated scabbard.
Behind him, the same manservant who met Crispin at the main door followed his master into the room and stood by the door, awaiting instructions.
The wealthy man rested his gaze on Crispin once more and left it there. “Crispin Guest?” he asked.
“At your service, my lord,” said Crispin and bowed.
The man nodded briskly before turning to his manservant. “Adam, you are dismissed. We will serve ourselves.”
The servant, Adam, threw a suspicious glare at Crispin. He hesitated a moment. But there didn’t seem to be any naysaying of this master, and the servant forced a bow before he trudged out, pulling the door shut behind him. The wealthy host strode to the closed door, grabbed the iron bolt, and locked them in.
Crispin glanced at the bolt but said nothing.
The man turned back to Crispin and hastily smiled. “I do like my privacy.”
Crispin remained silent.
“Please”—the man gestured toward a cushioned chair—“sit. Will you have wine?”
“Thank you.”
The merchant poured and handed Crispin a bowl. Crispin sat and savored the feel of the silver bowl in his hand and almost closed his eyes at the aroma of the sweet berry flavors of good Gascon wine. The man sat opposite in a larger chair. Crispin took only one sip and reluctantly set the bowl aside.
“I have heard of your discretion, Master Guest,” said the man at last. “And discretion is utmost in this instance.”
“Yes, Master. That is true in most instances.”
“Your reputation as an investigator—is it well deserved?”
“For four years I have been known as the ‘Tracker.’ I have heard no complaints about my service. My clients are well satisfied.”
