“I’m going to haul him to Newgate before
Jack made an affirming sound. They said nothing more as they waited for the ferryman slowly making his way across the choppy river.
Crispin did not allow Jack to accompany him. He didn’t want Jack anywhere near Julian. It was nearly Sext when he reached the gates of Westminster. He still wore his livery from Lancaster over his cotehardie but his hood was drawn low over his face, as always. A light dusting of snow helped to disguise him. He joined a group of pages filing in through the great hall like a pack of sheep.
Westminster Hall was nearly as grand as a cathedral. It was as wide as a row of infantry lined up shoulder to shoulder. The roof reached upwards on columns into a ceiling of wooden beams and trusses. A remarkable space, to be sure, and one that Crispin had enjoyed at many a feast when he was still in the good graces of the old king, Edward of Windsor.
Crispin kept his head down, well acquainted with the high ceilings and hanging banners and shields. He recalled all too well the last time he had been in this hall facing King Richard. It was an event he did not willingly wish to repeat.
He’d gotten halfway across the hall when he heard Giles’s voice hailing Lancaster. The hall was crowded with those begging audiences, clerks, servants, pages, and lords. One more liveried servant would be beneath Giles’s notice, and, Crispin hoped, Lancaster’s.
The duke turned a narrowed-eyed gaze toward Giles. “De Risley.”
Giles was with that thin, wheat-haired man, and the stockier dark fellow, Radulfus, who had taunted Crispin in the courtyard.
“Your grace,” said Giles with a deep bow. His compatriots followed suit. “I wondered. Had you had an opportunity to look into the monies the king promised to me from my uncle’s estate?”
Crispin could only see the back of him, but he recognized well the stiffening in Lancaster’s shoulders and the growl undertone to his voice. “I was not aware, my lord, that I was your personal banker.”
“No indeed, your grace,” he said. “It is just that you have the ear of the king, and since these funds were promised to me—”
“You throw the term lightly, my lord. ‘Promised?’ I know of no such promise from his Majesty. Your relations had the greater right to your uncle’s funds and lands. I think, rather, that you should take it up with them.”
“But your grace! That is impossible, as you surely know! They have turned their backs on me, foreswearing their oaths as kinsmen—”
Lancaster yawned. “That
“But your grace—” Giles reached for Lancaster’s arm. The scowl the duke delivered was monumental. Giles slowly unwound his fingers from Lancaster’s sleeve.
The duke said nothing more, did not even grace de Risley with a look, before he swept away.
Giles grimaced after him. His fellows crowded closer and spat an oath. He talked in bitter whispers to his companions. “And so you see my dilemma.”
“The bastard,” said Radulfus, sneering after Lancaster. Crispin felt an unnatural rage, but held himself back from knocking the man’s head with his dagger hilt. “So our little games continue.”
“As entertaining as they are,” said Giles, worriedly, “they are not working!”
“I have told you, my lord,” said the birdlike, fair-haired man. “These things take time.”
“I spent everything I had on the Guest Manor,” he growled. Crispin stiffened. He could not help taking a step closer. “And some money I took that was not my own,” he said, voice lowered. “It was supposed to be temporary. I was supposed to be able to pay it back without notice. You
“I told you, my lord, that the planets were not yet aligned. We should have waited until the next new moon —”
“You and your star charts!” Giles looked around and Crispin turned swiftly, feigning a search across the crowded hall. Giles clutched the man’s arm. Crispin surmised this small fellow to be his astrologer. The man always did have a soft spot for such foolery. But what was this about borrowing money? Had Giles paupered himself buying Crispin’s lands? It warmed Crispin’s heart that Giles somehow wished to preserve his estate from other snatching hands. But Giles should not have overextended himself.
He took a quick glance at the cousin, Radulfus, who was adjusting the long liripipe of his scarlet hat. Perhaps he had put Giles up to it. Giles always was gullible about certain things, especially about money. More often than not he took up with the wrong sort, making the wrong choices.
Carefully, Crispin backed up until he could hear them again. “I must do this thing. We must be able to call upon our lord. Only He can help me. Our funds are dwindling.”
So Giles had a patron? That would explain where he got the extra money for the lands. But had he borrowed a little too much? Apparently, Giles had wagered on this uncle’s funds that had not been bequeathed to him. Foolish. What was Radulfus urging Giles to do?
Crispin shuffled as close to them as he dared.
“I think you are a fool, Cornelius,” said Radulfus to the astrologer. “What have the stars to do with it at all? You are a liar. You have always been a liar!”
The young astrologer ruffled like an affronted guinea fowl.
“Now, now, dear cousin,” said Giles. “Keep your voice down. You know his Majesty barely tolerates us. And for that, I lay the blame at your feet!”
Radulfus snorted. “Blame me all you like, but it does not change the fact that we have not been invited to Christmas in Sheen.”
“But fear not, coz. We will be at my home at the Guest Manor.”
“When will you stop calling it the ‘Guest Manor’?” spat the man. “Is it not the de Risley Manor now?”
Giles made some sort of noise and Crispin smiled to himself.
“Of course,” said Giles, recovering. “The
“Two, you mean,” said the cousin.
“Th-three,” ventured Cornelius, glaring at the two of them.
“Of course, my dear Cornelius,” said Radulfus. “What would we do without you?” His hand slid around the man’s collar.
The young man did not seem pleased by this knowledge. Perhaps it was the odd tone that Radulfus invoked or the leer he gave him. Cornelius pulled his furred collar and looked around. “At any rate,” he said angling away from Radulfus, his Flemish accent growing stronger the more agitated he grew, “The Feast of Saint Nicholas will be the time. I am absolutely certain.”
“You were absolutely certain the last time, too,” said Giles.
“And the time before that,” said the other man.
Giles hooked his thumbs into his belt. “And there is no new moon on the feast day.”
“No,” said the astrologer. “There is no need. The stars are in the proper position. It will work.”
“It had better. I have risked too much as it is.”
The cousin chuckled. “And a great strain it has been.”
Giles sneered, broke away from them, and crossed toward the exit. They moved on and Crispin watched them go from under his hood. What mischief was here? It worried him that Radulfus seemed to be drawing Giles into his schemes. What could he do to warn Giles? He did not trust this cousin.
He’d have to think on it. There was nothing to be done now. He had other business to attend to.
Down the long corridor he went, lowering his face when he neared others wearing the duke’s livery. The young pages, too young to recognize him, praise God, stared hard at him as he passed, but he skirted by, hoping to escape another encounter with the duke.
The Jew’s door stood at the end of the corridor in the gloom of oil lamp smoke. Crispin flipped his knife from its sheath as he strode toward it and rapped on the door with the hilt.
Julian answered and appeared to be alone.
