She rolled her eyes and folded her arms over her chest. “What will Gilbert say? I tell you, Crispin, you take too many liberties.”
“That may be so, but this is urgent.”
She clutched the broom and made a few conciliatory sweeps. “It always is.”
He considered offering money in compensation, but the thought didn’t stay long. He had no money at the moment and, indeed, owed Gilbert and Eleanor much already. He softened his tone. “Nell.” He smiled. A foul trick, but it usually worked. “The sheriff will be after them, and they need a hiding place. Can you find it in your heart to hire them and keep them here? I would be grateful. It is only temporary until they can return to their lodgings and their situations.”
“Aw now, Crispin.” She glared at the women. “Well, if it’s to grate Wynchecombe. But
Crispin bowed formally. “Thank you, Eleanor.”
Livith pushed Grayce behind her and raised her sharp chin proudly. “You called us your clients. That means we must needs pay you. What is your fee?”
Crispin thought briefly of declining payment as a chivalrous act. But it had been a long time since he could afford the luxury of chivalry. “Sixpence a day. Plus more for expenses.”
She drew in her shoulders and sighed before reaching for the small purse attached to her belt. She poured out its contents into her palm. Four pence, one farthing. She raised her face. “That’s all I have.” But her eyes traveled back to the bag on Crispin’s shoulder.
Crispin scooped up three of the coins to change the direction of her thinking. “I’ll take thruppence now. You can pay me later. You’ll earn your food and board here, so you will have few expenses.” He slipped the coins into his own purse and cleared his throat. “Off with you now. I’ll see you here from time to time to let you know the tidings.”
“And when can we return to the King’s Head?”
“That may not be possible.”
The sisters looked at Eleanor.
Crispin made the introductions. “This is your new mistress, Eleanor Langton. Nell, this is Livith and her sister Grayce.”
Eleanor frowned. “Very well. Off to the kitchens with you.” She gestured with the broom.
The sisters headed toward the kitchen, but Livith looked back at Crispin. “What about that box, then? You can lick more gold off of that than can be had in this place.”
Crispin tightened his hold on the strap. “I say again. This is not your property, nor mine. In fact, were either of us to be found with it, it would most certainly mean our deaths. Is that what you want?”
She looked once at the satchel over Crispin’s shoulder and shivered. “Aye, I get your meaning at last.” She turned and disappeared through the archway.
Eleanor shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Your heart is bigger than your head, sometimes. I know you won’t admit it, but you are as soft as dough.”
Crispin said nothing. Feeling the small weight of coins in his pouch, he was loath to agree, but knew the truth of it.
“Would you stay, Crispin?” Eleanor set her broom aside and grabbed a drinking jug of wine, wiping its dewy spout with her apron. “Have a cup with me?”
He glanced toward the kitchen archway again and thought staying might be pleasant. But the weight of the courier’s bag hanging from his shoulder preyed on him. As did Jack Tucker’s hurried appearance and exit this morning. “As much as I would like to,” he said, “I fear I have other business to conduct.” Possibly the warmth and familiarity of the room enticed him to relax too much, or perhaps it was Eleanor’s bright eyes and sincere expression that drew the confession from him. He sniffed the smoky hearth and looked at his favorite spot in the corner with a sigh. “Jack is in trouble. I don’t know what to do.”
“Again? That boy. He needs a firm hand, Crispin. He’s had to care for himself for so long he doesn’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. It’s up to you. He is like a son to you. It’s time you treat him as such.”
“Nonsense. He’s twelve. That’s old enough to take care of himself. At his age, I had already begun my arms practice and supervised Lancaster’s London mills.”
“The duke was kind to you and acted as foster father, did he not?”
“Yes.” John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, was never far from Crispin’s thoughts. He barely remembered his own father, who died when he was seven. It was Lancaster’s face he saw when he thought of “father,” even though Lancaster was now an estranged one.
“Are you saying I should be more solicitous to the boy?”
“I’m saying he needs guidance. And who better?”
He felt an ache in the back of his neck. “I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted a servant.”
“Yet now you have one.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “But isn’t young Jack more than a servant?” Eleanor wore her matronly smile. It had the power to either annoy or mollify him. Today he couldn’t tell which it was.
What could he say to her words? He wondered just what his responsibilities to Jack Tucker were. He had met the twelve-year-old only a few months ago when the young thief tried to steal Crispin’s purse. It was Jack who had insinuated himself into Crispin’s life as his servant, not the other way around. The boy could barely be trusted to keep his hands to himself even after many promises.
He made his thanks to Eleanor but offered no reply to her entreaty. He didn’t really want to see the boy hanged, but if Jack didn’t curb his ways, that was all that was left to him.
CRISPIN TRUDGED BACK TO the Shambles under a fine spray of drizzle. Up the steps to his lodgings, he unlocked the door and swept the room with a glance. No Jack, as usual. He dropped the bag on the table and poured himself more wine into the bowl that he had offered to Grayce. The wine burned down his throat with a satisfying heat, and he licked his lips. He felt better already.
He looked at the bundle on the table, took his bowl with him, and tossed aside the bag’s top flap. He ran his hand over the carved wood, turned the key, and opened the lid. The gold box seemed to glow from its place within the wooden casket. He set the bowl down and pulled out the golden box. Besides the gems that encrusted the casket, there were raised friezes of Christ’s journey to the cross encircling it, all crafted in beaten gold. He lifted the lid and stared at the strange object within. “Crown of Thorns,” he muttered. A fingertip toyed with a particularly nasty spike before he drew the circlet out of its container and held it aloft. He turned the crown to examine it. Chuckling, he darted his gaze about the obviously empty room, shook his head at his wary suspicions, and placed it on his head.
“The suffering servant,” he said without mirth. “That’s me.” He caught his reflection in the brass mirror pegged to a post above the basin and water jug. The crown had little appeal and did not improve his features. His blurry image suddenly made him feel like a fool, and he lifted the crown from his head. But in the indistinct reflection he noticed something dark on his wide brow and he raised his fingers there. Blood.
He examined the inside of the crown. He hadn’t felt any pain when he wore it, but there within were prickly thorns, and what looked like the vestiges of winding stems, all black with age. He placed the crown back within its reliquary and touched his wounds again. “Treacherous little relic.” Walking to the window overlooking the street, he pulled open the shutters. He leaned out and took a deep breath. The smell of the Shambles did not overpower today. Perhaps the wind blew in the opposite direction. Whatever the case, he suddenly felt too cooped up in the room. And he did have the task of reporting to the sheriff about the dead man.
Closing the shutters, he threw open the door and trotted down the stairs. He thought about food—he hadn’t eaten since last night—but didn’t feel hungry. He reached the bottom step and inhaled again, as if the act of filling his lungs and widening his rib cage were a new experience. In fact, the air was unaccountably renewing. So much so that he felt like leaping into the street. He wanted to run up the avenue like a young boy, like he used to do down the long lane from Lancaster’s house in the country to its main road. Strange, but exhilarating, this feeling.
And he wanted to forget his troubles—to forget Jack Tucker and his thieving ways, to forget the harsh looks from former peers when he made the odd encounter on the street. He wanted to allow these new sensations to wash over him, to take him like a rushing river far beyond these troubled shoals. His chest felt warm and his limbs
