man with a purpose.
Surely their deaths were to hide sodomy. A would-be physician might use their deaths as an excuse for vivisection. And for other nefarious reasons. Crispin grimaced at the thought.
And now this nobleman in the carriage. What did he know of the murders? Too much.
A sick sensation swam in his gut. Had Crispin been entertained by a vicious murderer?
Many facts. None of them made the least bit of sense yet. But they would. He swore they would.
First things first. Jacob and his Jewish magic troubled him. It might be the root of all their ills or it might be only a foolish diversion. There was one person who could give him some perspective and some proper information on that troubled people, and that was Nicholas de Litlyngton, abbot of Westminster Abbey.
Crispin turned on his heel and headed toward the church.
8
Westminster Abbey lay across a snowy expanse of courtyard, spiny with peaks and arches, as prickly as a hedgehog. The white snow drifted into the mason’s details of carved stone, ledges, and trefoils, defining their textures and curves.
Crispin debated with himself whether he should enter the church at the north entrance or back by the chilly cloister. The idea that the church might be a bit warmer won out, and he trod up the snowy path toward the Norman portico. Inside was dark, but the large rose and clerestory windows offered pale, colored light as if through the iridescent wings of a mayfly.
The nave was not empty. It teemed with men of all stripes. Though there were some kneeling by the distant rood screen, others paced across the shining stone floor. Business was flourishing. Clerks, scribes, and lawyers eager for employment from merchants and nobles, wore away the tiles in their quest. One clerk looked up hopefully before his eyes shadowed over Crispin’s threadbare cotehardie and flicked away again.
The air smelled of old incense and must. A draft made the open nave cold, flickering the candles, but the interior was not as cold as the naked world without. Crispin’s eyes adjusted and then searched the arched nave for a cassock.
The columns were surrounded by scaffolding. It seemed every great cathedral in England was being reworked and made anew, a caterpillar sloughing off last year’s skin in hopes of emerging as a butterfly. Crispin supposed the money was well spent, but there seemed to him to be the same number of beggars at the almsdoor. Funny how he never gave it much thought before, when he was donating his coin purse for a chapel to be built at Sheen. A chapel in which others, Giles de Risley among them, now prayed.
The columns and pillars of stone shot up into the dim, vaulted ceiling. Taller than any forest, it was a feat to be admired. The mason’s art was more than craft. It was too bad Crispin had not been apprenticed so.
His eyes scanned again down the nave and peered past the pillars into the wooden choir with its own carved spires. There he saw a monk lighting candles, and headed toward him.
“Good Brother,” he said, delaying the monk as he raised his silver candle lighter. The monk turned to him. He was young, perhaps little more than a boy. His hood was drawn low over his brow. Brown eyes glittered with surprise that he should be addressed. He said nothing, but waited for Crispin to speak.
“I need to see Abbot Nicholas. Could you take me to him?”
The monk’s eyes widened. Crispin expected it. He interrupted what would surely have been a sputtered excuse. “My Lord Abbot and I are old friends. He will see me. I will tarry here if it please you. Tell him Crispin Guest awaits.”
The monk could not seem to argue with this. He closed his mouth and blew out the wick at the end of his lighter. Scurrying down the aisle toward the south transept, he looked back once. Crispin followed, knowing that the young cleric would return this way. He strolled to the door at the crotch of the south transept. Three large quatrefoils within circles of stone reared above the arched entrance, upheld by lancet arches. The door would be barred. He would wait. He had no doubt the youth, or another monk, would be back.
It didn’t take long for a familiar face to unlock the door and approach. Brother Eric smiled from under his cowl. “Master Crispin,” he said. “
“Thanks be to God,” Crispin replied and took his hand in welcome, hiding a wince when his wounded arm flexed. “May I speak a few words with the abbot?”
Brother Eric nodded and gestured for Crispin to follow. They entered the cloister and ambled down the colonnade, walking side by side. Their steps echoed back to them and bounced from carrel to empty carrel. The cloister garden was a tangle of dead sticks and twisted, brown vines. All lay dormant now that winter was upon them, though the stillness faltered under the flitting of bramblings that rustled the branches and pecked at the wattle fences, their orange breasts lending a bit of color to the lifeless undergrowth.
The way was familiar to Crispin and, shoulder to shoulder, they trotted up the chilled steps to the abbot’s quarters.
Brother Eric drew ahead of Crispin and knocked lightly on the abbot’s door. A soft reply later, and the monk opened the heavy oak, allowing Crispin in before he shut it after him, leaving them alone.
“Crispin!” The old abbot’s face lit and he made a move to skirt his worktable, but Crispin motioned for him to remain. Instead, he met the man with the table between them and extended his hand. “My Lord Abbot.”
“It is good to see you, friend Crispin. Shall we have wine?”
Eagerly, he retreated to the sideboard where he knew Abbot Nicholas kept French wine in a flagon. He poured two goblets of the golden liquid and returned, offering one to the abbot before they both sat. Putting the metal goblet to his lips, Crispin closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet fruit before his mouth tasted. When he opened his eyes again, the abbot was smiling at him. “Good, eh? I just received this shipment from Spain. I favor the sweetness of this variety.”
“Quite good,” said Crispin, savoring the flavors exploding on his tongue.
They sipped at their goblets for a few moments before Abbot Nicholas sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have not seen you in some time, Crispin. Our chess game awaits.”
The tall windows showered a rainbow of light onto the chessboard, illuminating chess pieces that they had left a month before. Slowly, Crispin sat in his chair on the black side and Nicholas seated himself opposite. The abbot took a short quaff of his wine, set it aside on a table, and rubbed his hands. “I believe it is your turn.”
Crispin smiled. “This game will be over in nine moves.”
Nicholas chortled. “Indeed? Pride, Master Guest, is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.”
“It is not pride, my Lord Abbot, but the truth. ‘Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is Truth.’ ”
The abbot’s eyes sparkled. “Your Aristotle seems more dear to you. It is not wise to put your faith in one voice, and a pagan one at that, Crispin. ‘Beware the man of one book.’ So says Saint Thomas Aquinas.”
Crispin gave him a sidelong look before reaching over the pieces to move his knight.
“Always you move the knight,” muttered Nicholas, his watery eyes scanning the players.
“The knight is an enterprising fellow.”
Nicholas quirked an eyebrow before returning his gaze to the board. “No doubt.” He dithered his hand over several pieces before deciding on his bishop. “But I fear you did not come here to simply play a game of chess with me, much as it would cheer me to think it.”
Crispin could not help the frown that shifted his mouth. “No, Nicholas. Would that I had the leisure.” He moved his knight again, keeping his eyes downcast. He felt the man staring at him.
