“I do want you to better yourself.” Crispin listened to Jack muttering for a time and then chuckled. Jack had none of the advantages Crispin had had, but the boy was very much like Crispin nevertheless. He recognized something of himself in Jack when he was that age. It seemed so long ago now. Eighteen years. A lot can happen to a man in eighteen years. A lot of good . . . or a lot of bad.
Crispin stood and nudged Jack back toward the window. He helped Crispin’s bad side. Once back in the small room, Crispin held his free hand up to the hearth and looked about at the single candle, one chair, and one stool. He considered for a moment, then walked to the coffer, opened it, and took out his writing things. He placed the wax slate and stylus on the table and gestured to the stool. “Jack, how would you like to learn to read and write?”
Jack stood by the hearth and swiveled his head toward Crispin. “Me? You going to teach
“Yes. Why not?”
“I’m just a—I can’t learn no reading or writing.”
“Don’t be a fool. Of course you can. Now sit down.” Jack stood as he was, nailed to the spot. His face was somber and white. Crispin patted the stool as if encouraging some stray dog to approach. After a long moment, Jack seemed to surrender something and shuffled along the floor until he reached the table. Slowly, he lowered to the stool. “We’ll start with Latin. Then French. English, of course. And if you are a quick study, even Greek. Then you can read Aristotle for yourself instead of my quoting him to you.”
Jack’s jaw hadn’t closed since Crispin’s pronouncement. “You can’t mean it. I’m . . . I’m only a cutpurse.”
“You want to be a cutpurse all your life? You’re my servant. And my protege, if you wish. Don’t you want to be a Tracker, too? To that end, I think it time I pay you a wage—say one farthing for each job I get. How does that sound?”
Jack didn’t move. His face grew solemn. More than that. His mouth curved downward in a sorrowful grimace and suddenly a single tear traveled from his reddening eye down his pale cheek. He raised his hand and slowly opened the laces of his tunic, reached in, and pulled out a pouch fashioned in smooth, oxblood leather. Obviously not Jack’s pouch. He lifted it toward Crispin, hand trembling. “I don’t know who to return it to,” he whispered.
Crispin solemnly took it. “As this is your last—isn’t it?”
“Oh aye, sir.” He crossed himself. “You can be sure of that!”
“Then tomorrow we’ll give it to Abbot Nicholas and you can make your confession to him. Start clean.”
“Aye, Master.”
“Wipe your face and come closer to the candle. Now this is how you write your name in English.” Crispin sounded out each letter as he penned them. “J-A-C-K. And in Latin . . . I-A-C-O-B-U-S and in French . . . J-A-C-Q- U-E-S . . .”
Crispin handed Jack the stylus and allowed himself a smile. Here was something no king could confer or ever take away.
Author’s Afterword
John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, was something of an imposing figure in his day. Even though the plot that ruined Crispin’s life is my own fiction, there were, no doubt, many plots laid for and by the intimidating duke.
Born in Ghent (Gaunt), Flanders, in 1340, he began his fighting career early and married well to further his holdings. He married his third cousin Blanche of Lancaster, and when his father-in-law died, he inherited the title, becoming the earl of Lancaster, which made him the wealthiest man in England. Later, his father, Edward III, made him a “duke.” He campaigned with his older brother Edward of Woodstock (the Black Prince) and fought many battles in the Hundred Years War and in aid to his ally Peter the Cruel of Castile, though many of his more successful battles were in backrooms rather then on a battle-fields.
When Blanche died, he married Peter’s daughter Constance, or Costanza, and laid claim to the throne of Castile. He took command of the troops when his brother Edward fell ill, and through backroom and bedroom dealings, gained control of England while his father, Edward III, declined in health. If Edward of Woodstock had died without an heir, John would certainly have become king. But it is the quirk of the line of succession that fouled that up. Edward might have been quite competent. He was certainly well-liked, but he died right before his father himself gave up the ghost and Richard was the next in line.
The “Good Parliament” of 1376 cut Gaunt down to size by stripping him and his cohorts of power, but it wasn’t long until he rebounded, put his friends in place, and put together his own handpicked Parliament in 1377. At this time his nephew Richard II came to the throne with Gaunt more or less as steward. Gaunt again was the most powerful man in England. He made some decisions that did not always sit well with the people, but since he wasn’t the king he let Richard take the brunt of it. He made darned sure, in fact, that he wasn’t associated with any talk of taking the reins from Richard. If he had wanted to do it, he surely could have. One wonders why he did not chose to do so.
In his household, Lancaster had the court poet Geoffrey Chaucer as a loyal friend and servant. Was it because he liked the poet or liked his sister-in-law more? For the duke entertained Chaucer’s sister-in-law Katherine Swynford as his mistress for over twenty-five years, and even married her a year after Constance died. Katherine wasn’t his first mistress. When he was a young man he took one of his mother’s ladies-in-waiting as a mistress, Marie de St. Hiliare, and had a daughter with her, named Blanche Plantagenet. All told, he had about fourteen children both legitimate and il-, with nine living into adulthood. His illegitimate children from Katherine Swynford were made legitimate by King Richard when John finally married her, but they were barred from inheriting the throne.
Meanwhile, King Richard II had a falling out with the duke’s legitimate son Henry Bolingbroke and kicked him out of the country. But it was Lancaster who got the last laugh. By the end of the century, Richard was forced to abdicate and was then left to starve to death. Lancaster’s son Henry seized the throne and thus the royal House of Lancaster began. Unfortunately, the venerable duke was in his grave by then.
But speaking of inheriting the throne, Gaunt’s eldest son by Katherine Swynford, John, had a granddaughter, Margaret Beaufort, whose son became Henry VII and who took the throne from the last Plantagenet, Richard III. And Henry VII in turn married Elizabeth of York (who was also related to John of Gaunt), thus ending the York and Lancaster feud known as the War of the Roses.
Last laugh indeed.
The assassination plot in this story was my fiction, but it was certainly a precursor of things to come. Richard’s reign began with hopeful spirits for a young monarch, only to end in tragedy years later. Crispin may have disliked Richard now (and indeed, Crispin reflected that sentiment in the Latin he used to bless the Crown, translated as “May you rot in Hell, loathsome king”) but it was only later in Richard’s reign that the citizens of England began to feel the same way.
These events are far removed from the next chapter in Crispin’s story as he encounters his new adventure. This time it is the serial murders of children, the mysteries of the Kabbalah, and a dangerous golem on the loose in
And by the way, you can keep track of some of Crispin’s thoughts by going to his blog at www.CrispinGuest.com.
