She dismissed the king with an angry gesture. He knew she did not fear the boy king of England. Not when her father had been king of Castile and her husband, Lancaster, ruled the king’s own council. “I think my lord would be happy to see you again.”
“My lady, his grace does not share that sentiment.”
“Then why are you here?”
A lie eluded him. “I…had hoped to speak with him. But it is better—”
“Nonsense. Come with me. Lewis, help him in.”
The coachman eyed Crispin. Crispin backed away. “My lady, no. The duke already refused my admittance.”
“Are you disobeying a command from your better, Master Guest? I said, get in!”
Grateful, he nevertheless feared her misplaced loyalty would do them both ill. But she was right. He could not naysay her, especially in front of her servants.
Lewis lowered the coach’s gate, which also served as a step. Crispin ducked as he entered the arched compartment and sat opposite her along the pillowed bench.
“Let us hope John is in an agreeable mood today,” she said.
Crispin hoped so, too, and he tried to sit back and relax. The unwieldy carriage bumped along the avenue, rattling those within and making it an uncomfortable ride, even with pillows beneath them.
The maid did her best not to stare at Crispin. He did not know where to look either, and gazed out the small window while holding fast to the bench for dear life.
The carriage passed through the gates and stopped before the massive arched portico. The door opened, and Lancaster’s steward rushed forward to greet the duchess. She emerged first, and the man bowed.
Crispin stepped down from the carriage, and the steward’s face went white.
“My lady—” the steward tried to interject, but Costanza only raised her chin.
“Where is my lord husband?”
“His grace is in his apartments, my lady. In the parlor, but—”
“Very well. Come, Crispin.”
Crispin looked back at the sputtering steward. There was nothing for Crispin to say to him, and he only shrugged at the man and followed the duchess inside. The familiar corridors and halls settled him in a place somewhere between comfort and misgiving. This was home to him, yet he did not belong here anymore.
Shadows parted for rushlights, and they walked a long way, first through the massive great hall, through a close, through a chapel, and down a long corridor until they turned a corner and entered the warm apartments of the duke. Crispin recalled the parlor well with its carved oak beams and wood-paneled ceiling, heavy tapestries, carved pillars, ornate sideboards, and lush chairs. The fireplace stood as tall as a man and as wide as five of them. Made of carved stone, it boasted the badges of Gaunt impaled by Castile. A great log within burned with a rolling golden fire, casting an aroma of toasted pine and spicy ash into the chamber. A corona filled with blazing candles stood nearly in the center of the room. Not far from the hearth sat the man himself at his desk, enthroned in his chair, nose immersed in his books. The quill, poised like a dagger, stood straight up in his hand.
He looked up and smiled upon seeing his wife. The smile fell away when Crispin stepped from behind her.
Lancaster stood so abruptly the heavy chair fell back. “God’s blood!”
Crispin bowed and opened his hands. “Your grace, forgive me—”
Lancaster drew his sword and lunged forward, two, three strides. “By God, when I give an order I expect it to be obeyed!”
Crispin waited. The sword would either strike him or not. Either way suited.
“My lord husband! Is this the courtesy you extend to my guests?”
Lancaster stared at her. His scowl hid amid the dark beard and mustache. The sword lowered and his shoulders with it. “You did this,” he said to her. “You brought him here.”
“In all fairness,” she said, moving forward and laying a gentle, white hand on Lancaster’s sword arm, “he protested. I forced him to it.”
With a huff that gusted his mustache, Lancaster slid the blade back in its sheath. Without a word, he made a slow circlet of his overturned chair and finally stood behind it. “You take liberties, Madam,” he said gently to his wife. “You do not understand the seriousness—”
“I understand when an old friend is neglected. And I understand when it is politically expedient. But I also understand that our friend Crispin does not take such a visitation lightly, and therefore it must be of some import.” She angled her head at Crispin. The gold cages cupping the rolled braids at her ears sparkled when she turned. “It is of some import, is it not?” she whispered to him. “Do not make a liar out of me.”
“Yes, my lady.” He bowed to her and looked up hopefully at Lancaster. “It is.”
The duke closed his eyes for a moment. The dark lids rose slowly and he sighed. He leaned down, righted his chair, and sat heavily. “Will you leave us?” he asked her.
She curtseyed, pressed her hand a moment on Crispin’s, and left.
Crispin stood alone waiting for Lancaster to speak. The roaring fire diminished under Lancaster’s presence and even the wooden floor feared to creak lest his eye be directed there.
It was one of the longest silences of Crispin’s life.
At length, the duke cleared his throat, closed his books one by one, and set his quill aside. “When the king asks me why you were here,” he said, raising his face, “I hope to answer him with substance. For he
Crispin looked at the scuffed toes of his boots. “I needed to come—”
“Rashness, Crispin. Always your downfall. You do not spend enough time reasoning it out.”
“Your grace—”
“Is it another one of your criminal inquiries? Why you cannot leave it to the law I will never understand.”
“Because the law founders on its own ineptness…your grace.”
By the look on Lancaster’s face, he didn’t exactly agree. The duke rose from his chair and took his time approaching. Lancaster studied Crispin’s threadbare coat, its patches, and the careless stitching that repaired his stockings.
Crispin felt each blink of the man’s lash, each snort of disdain in his throat. To appear before his lord in something little better than rags…Crispin felt his face flush with heat.
Finally, Lancaster stopped and looked Crispin in the eye. “I thought I made it clear that I did all I could for you. Wasn’t saving your life good enough?”
The words smarted. “And I thanked you for it. But there is information only you can provide. No one else in the council will have anything to do with me. I hoped you would have the courage to admit me.”
Lancaster’s hand slapped his sword hilt. “How dare you!”
Crispin eyed the sword and slowly raised his gaze. “What more can be done to me?”
Lancaster’s brows were perfect black arches. His lower lip jutted slightly forward. “I can think of a thing or two,” he said in a deadly voice.
Crispin’s blood chilled, but he would not stand down. “I would not be here if I did not think England’s welfare was at stake.”
Lancaster’s hand fell away from his sword. “So”—he snorted—“your
“I am London born and raised, your grace. I am as much England as the king.”
Lancaster huffed a sound somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. “His Majesty would not be particularly pleased to hear that.” He glared at Crispin before retreating to the sideboard. He poured himself wine from a silver flagon but offered none to Crispin. He stood with his back to him and drank.
Crispin studied Lancaster’s wide shoulders. Being at home, the duke wore no armor, but Crispin was almost more used to him in the black armor he was so fond of. Today he wore a velvet houppelande whose sleeve points surpassed the gown’s knee-length hem and nearly touched the floor. The coat’s face was quartered by the colorful arms of Gaunt and Castile. Only ten years Crispin’s senior, he seemed so much older, so much stronger and heroic. Here was a man with claims to the throne of Castile and Leon. He was unafraid of any power in Europe. And though he warned Crispin of the king’s wrath, Crispin suspected he did not fear Richard himself.
“What worries you so about England’s welfare,” Lancaster asked, his back still to Crispin, “that only the
