“I see.” The merchant smiled with a contented nod, but then his face tightened and he fell into an agitated silence. They measured each other for a long span before the man sprang unexpectedly to his feet and nervously warmed his hands at the hearth.
“Perhaps,” Crispin suggested after another long silence, “you should start at the beginning, and then we can discover what it is you would have me do.”
The man sighed heavily and glanced once at the closed door. “My name is Nicholas Walcote.”
Crispin nodded. This he knew. The richest mercer in London, possibly in all England. Reclusive. Eccentric. It was said Walcote hadn’t been seen by his own guild since his boyhood, but his renowned trade in cloth kept his reputation intact. The man seemed always ahead of the trends, always importing just the right merchandise at the right time, cloth that the market seemed enraptured with. The man had a head for business like few others. Crispin mentally shook his head—the cloth trade was a complete mystery to him. There had once been a time when he followed fashions, but he did not have to heed courtly finery today, even if he could afford it.
The thought soured his belly as thoughts of King Richard’s court often did. His history made Walcote his better and left Crispin in rags. But not for long. Crispin measured each man these days by the amount of gold they were willing to part with. And by the looks of things, Nicholas Walcote could afford to part with a great deal.
Canting toward the edge of his seat, Crispin schooled his features and pulled the hem of his coat down over his thigh to cover a hole in his left stocking. “What might these discreet matters be, Master Walcote?”
When Walcote met Crispin’s gaze his face hardened. “It is my wife. I fear…I fear she is unfaithful to me.” His eyes filled with tears. Abruptly, he dropped his head into his hands and wept.
Crispin sat back and examined his nails, waiting for Walcote’s tears to subside. He waited a long time.
At last Walcote raised his head and wiped his face with large, square hands. “Forgive me.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “These are disturbing matters. Of course I am not certain. That is why I called for you.”
Crispin reckoned where this was heading and didn’t like it. “What is it you wish me to do?”
“Surely you have experience in these matters.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You wish me to spy on your wife?”
Walcote crossed the room and stood above his untouched wine. The frost-edged window panes added a gray wash of faint light onto the polished wooden floor. The rest of the room lay steeped in shadows or the manicured halos of candle sconces.
“It is driving me mad!” he hissed. “I must know! The business, my estates. I must know that any issue from her is mine. We have been married so briefly and I travel much on business.”
Love and jealousy were one thing, but the business of inheritance quite another. “Just so. What are your intentions if you discover an unpleasant truth?”
Walcote’s ruddy countenance deepened to red. “That, Master Guest, is my business alone.”
“I think you are mistaken. I do not care to be the cause of violence, no matter how justified.”
Walcote glared at him, and suddenly the merchant’s curled fists opened. He smiled apologetically. “Such personal matters. It is difficult to be rational. There would be words, certainly, and perhaps punitive action. But violence? No. You see, despite it all, I love my wife.”
Crispin rose, crossed to the hearth, and warmed his back against the fire. His wet mantle dripped on the floor. “I have no stomach for such business, Master Walcote. I recover lost jewelry, stolen papers, and such like. Adultery? I leave that to clerics.” He shook his head and moved to the door, but Walcote scrambled to maneuver in front of him and even spread his arms to cover the entrance.
Walcote weighed a good sixteen stone, but it was all easy living and heavy food. Trim and fit, Crispin did not doubt that if he wished to leave, Walcote could not impede him.
“Please, Master Guest. You know I am a wealthy man. I will pay any price. I cannot tell this story again to another. I beg of you!”
“This is unpleasant and personal business, Master Walcote.” Crispin eyed his abandoned wine bowl. “In my opinion, you should talk to your wife.” He placed his hand on Walcote’s arm and squeezed, moving it easily aside. He reached for the bolt but Walcote grabbed his wrist.
“But how can I believe her answer?”
Crispin offered a smile. “She just might tell you the truth. Stranger things have happened.”
“You do not know my wife,” Walcote muttered. “I have tried, but the truth with her is different from others.”
Walcote tightened his grip on Crispin’s wrist. Crispin looked down at it. “Surely there is a servant you can send,” he told his host.
“And be the laughingstock of the servant’s hall?” He shook his head and released Crispin’s wrist. “Have you never been betrayed? Would you not have wanted someone to intervene for you? To warn you?”
Crispin gnawed on words close to his heart. Betrayed? He had been betrayed twice in his life in the worst possible ways. Once by a man he trusted with his life, and the other by the woman he intended to marry. If he had only been warned. If someone had but said—
He lowered his hand from the bolt and stared at the floor, ticking off the advantages both for and against. He stood that way for a while, until a long breath escaped his lips and he pivoted to face Walcote. The man was desperate. No doubt of that. His ruddy face reddened and sweat shined on his nose and forehead. All his wealth was no surety of happiness. Crispin almost snorted at the irony.
Instead, he sighed his frustration, feeling the hollowness of the purse at his own belt. “Very well. What is it you wish me to do?”
Walcote’s words spilled out. “Watch the house. See where she goes or who appears when I am out. Report to me what you find. I shall take care of the rest.” He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “What is your fee for such a commission?”
“Sixpence a day, plus expenses.”
“I will pay that and more. Here is a good-faith payment.” He reached into the purse at his belt and withdrew three coins. “Half a day’s wages now. More for however long it takes.”
Crispin looked at the coins in Walcote’s moist palm. Three silver disks. To refuse them meant starvation. Nothing new. He had starved before. If he accepted them, it meant creeping in shadows, little better than a voyeur. But it also might lead to better appointments, better opportunities. Perhaps even through the Walcote household itself, and a rich household it was.
With a bitter heart, his fingers scooped up the coins and dropped them into his purse.
“How shall I know your wife?” asked Crispin. “May I see her?”
“Oh no! That will never do.” Walcote went to the sideboard and opened the doors. He took a small object from a back shelf and cupped it in his hand, gazing at it. Reluctantly he handed it to Crispin. “This is a portrait of Philippa. It is the best likeness.”
Crispin examined the miniature. A young brown-eyed woman in her early twenties looked out at him. Her hair was a brassy gold and parted in the middle. Two ring braids draped over her ears.
Crispin handed the portrait back, but the merchant shook his head. “Keep that for now. I would have you be certain.”
Crispin shrugged and stuffed the small portrait through the opening of his coat.
“I want you to begin tonight,” said Walcote distractedly. “And tell me whatever you discover as soon as possible.”
“Let us hope your worries are for nought.”
“Yes.” He wrung his hands and turned his back on Crispin to face the fire. “Adam will let you out.”
Leaving the Walcote courtyard, Crispin could not help but look back over his shoulder at the grand stone structure.
He passed through the gatehouse and acknowledged the porter inside with only a curt nod. Pulling his leather hood up, he gathered his cloak about him. The autumn sky hung gray and sullen. He felt grateful the rain had stopped but his breath still fogged his face.
If Walcote wanted him to start tonight then now seemed as good a time as any. He walked across the street to warm himself over a shopkeeper’s brazier and nodded to a man already standing there. The man gestured toward the house. “Been looking for a job?” A thick-as-fog Southwark accent, but his manner rubbed a little too
