his library at Sheen. Many of them had been given to him by the duke of Lancaster. He knew how precious such a thing was and how much the abbot trusted him. He bowed to the old monk. “I am deeply grateful, Abbot Nicholas.”
Nicholas waved him off. “Anything to find the murderer of that child.” He laid his hand on the leather cover. The etched designs were dark from age. “Thomas was a contemporary of those events almost one hundred years ago. His writing is very clear.”
“Thank you, Nicholas. I will take good care of this.”
“I know you will. Here. Let me give you a scrip.” The abbot retrieved a leather pouch hanging by its strap near the door. Crispin slipped the book inside and slung it over his shoulder, the strap cutting diagonally across his chest. “Until next time, Crispin. And perhaps I will best you on the chessboard.”
Crispin glanced at the board with all its players carefully arranged to begin a new match. He smiled as he bowed again. “You can certainly try, my Lord Abbot.”
* * *
Armed with this new information, Crispin left the abbey and stood on the snow-pocked square. And so. There was precedent for the ritual blood-letting of Christian children by Jews. He hefted the book, thinking. Jews no longer lived in England. He didn’t hold much store in Abbot Nicholas’s rumors. It wouldn’t be easy for Jews to hide themselves, the food they ate, or their houses of worship. Londoners lived too close together. Each parish knew the doings of each of its citizens. But Jews did live in certain areas of France and Lombardy, and Crispin had frequented those places in his travels with Lancaster. He had never heard of such murders before and certainly there would have been an outcry.
Still, his mind seized on images of the sour Julian. A ritual murder. Yes, the boy was angry enough. But if only one a year was needed, why had there been four deaths? And there was never a mention on the Coroner’s rolls of signs of crucifixion in these murders, even if other unspeakable acts had been committed.
He adjusted the strap across his chest and surveyed the street. Westminster Palace lay ahead but he could not enter without the duke’s livery. He had to wait for that disguise in order to speak to the servants within about any stolen parchments.
How he hated waiting.
“By the rood,” said a voice behind him.
Crispin turned. A man in a splendid houppelande of rich velvet sat astride his mount, speaking to another man beside him.
“What is Crispin Guest doing so close to the palace?” said the man, staring into Crispin’s narrowed eyes.
He had the presence of mind to bow to these men he did not recognize. “I was just—” he gestured toward the abbey, but never finished his sentence.
The man dismounted and the other man followed suit. His mocking smile faded and a scowl replaced it. “You have no leave to be near the palace, Traitor Guest. For any reason.”
Crispin’s guard was up, his senses now attuned and sharpened to every sound, every movement around him on the street. How he hated these encounters! He didn’t even know this lord’s name, but it made little difference. Every knave with a shield on his arm knew that Crispin was as vulnerable as a deer. It was their little game to take a stab at him from time to time.
The man strode up to him, flanked by his amused companion and his horse. The man was dark with a close- trimmed beard, a scarlet rondelle hat with a ridiculously long liripipe tail, draped across his chest and over his shoulder, not once but twice.
His companion was young and clean-shaven like Crispin. He had the air of one who was a servant or steward, not quite the equal of his companion. His hair under his hat was the color of wheat in the rain. He was diminutive and delicate, with thin limbs and long fingers. He had the blush of an accent when he spoke quietly to the dark- haired man. Flemish?
The dark-haired lord stood toe to toe with Crispin, looking him up and down. “What mischief are you perpetrating now, Guest? Hmm? What trouble do you cause?”
“Trouble, my lord? I swear by God himself that I am after no trouble.”
“Yet you’ve found it nonetheless.” He leaned into Crispin and snarled stale breath into his face. “Traitors should not have leave to walk the streets.” He shoved hard and Crispin fell backward, splayed into the muddy snow.
The man stood over him, laughing quietly, dangerously. His blond-haired companion lost his amusement and suddenly looked anxious.
The lord drew his blade. Crispin felt his heart battering his chest. Flaring his nostrils, he inhaled his own sharp sweat and the wretchedly cold air that filled his lungs until they felt as heavy as wineskins. His eyes darted from one man to the other. Was he to be killed in the street like a dog? His fingers scrabbled in the mud, clutching at nothing.
Crispin watched the sword point approach his face and hover over his nose. He pressed himself into the mud to keep as far away from the steel as possible. The blade moved down his neck, hovered over his chest, tucked into the edge of his mantle, and, with a flick, cast it aside. “What a disgusting coat, Guest. Filthy. Are you not shamed to be seen in the streets thus?”
Crispin held his breath, pressing himself into the mud.
“You chose badly, Crispin. You did not plot and plan. You did not prepare. God did not smile upon you. No, indeed. He turns away from the weak. The strong find the power—”
“My lord!” hissed the wheat-haired man.
“Master Cornelius. Worry not. I can say what I like to this cur.”
The blade continued, slowly edging down Crispin’s body until it drifted over his scrip. The point poked it and then flitted away. “What have we here?”
The man leaned down and untied Crispin’s scrip, throwing the flap aside. He reached in and pulled out the book the abbot had given him only moments before.
He opened the cover and read a moment before looking down at him again. “Thomas of Monmouth? Where did you get this book? Did you steal it?” The blade was back, aiming at his chest.
“No, my lord,” he said between gritted teeth. “The Abbot of Westminster loaned it to me—”
“You lie,” said the man, sounding bored. “For why would the Abbot of Westminster have aught to do with you?”
“He’s my friend!” said Crispin more harshly than he intended.
“Your
For the first time in a long time, Crispin genuinely feared for his life. This man clearly outranked him. It was impossible for him to defend himself. He was very nearly above the law. Above any law that would see them punished for finishing off the likes of Crispin on the naked street.
And Crispin didn’t even know his name!
He glanced desperately at the hooded faces surrounding their little tableau. Dull-witted workmen with slack mouths, frightened shopkeepers, and men passing by on horses. Spectators only. There was absolutely no one who would step forward to save him. No one of sufficient rank, at any rate, who would care to try.
The man smiled. “Guest,” he said, bringing the blade closer and pressing the tip into his neck. He felt the tip pierce the flesh with a sharp twinge. “Shall I? Take you out of this workaday world and send you to a far greater reward? Unless, of course, you think Hell awaits. Which is the greater punishment, then?” He pressed deeper. Crispin choked, trying to keep his neck taut. “Beg for your life and I will be generous.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Crispin clenched his jaw. If die he must, this was as good a way as any. He almost spit at the man but he could not move his head without spearing his own throat.
“Radulfus!”
The dark lord turned. Giles de Risley scrambled off his mount, grabbed the man’s arm, and pulled him back. “What, by the saints, are you doing?”
“Just a bit of sport, coz. I saw this traitor close to the palace and thought to waylay him.”
