Eleanor shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Your heart is bigger than your head, sometimes. I know you won’t admit it, but you are as soft as dough.”
Crispin said nothing. Feeling the small weight of coins in his pouch, he was loath to agree, but knew the truth of it.
“Would you stay, Crispin?” Eleanor set her broom aside and grabbed a drinking jug of wine, wiping its dewy spout with her apron. “Have a cup with me?”
He glanced toward the kitchen archway again and thought staying might be pleasant. But the weight of the courier’s bag hanging from his shoulder preyed on him. As did Jack Tucker’s hurried appearance and exit this morning. “As much as I would like to,” he said, “I fear I have other business to conduct.” Possibly the warmth and familiarity of the room enticed him to relax too much, or perhaps it was Eleanor’s bright eyes and sincere expression that drew the confession from him. He sniffed the smoky hearth and looked at his favorite spot in the corner with a sigh. “Jack is in trouble. I don’t know what to do.”
“Again? That boy. He needs a firm hand, Crispin. He’s had to care for himself for so long he doesn’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. It’s up to you. He is like a son to you. It’s time you treat him as such.”
“Nonsense. He’s twelve. That’s old enough to take care of himself. At his age, I had already begun my arms practice and supervised Lancaster’s London mills.”
“The duke was kind to you and acted as foster father, did he not?”
“Yes.” John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, was never far from Crispin’s thoughts. He barely remembered his own father, who died when he was seven. It was Lancaster’s face he saw when he thought of “father,” even though Lancaster was now an estranged one.
“Are you saying I should be more solicitous to the boy?”
“I’m saying he needs guidance. And who better?”
He felt an ache in the back of his neck. “I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted a servant.”
“Yet now you have one.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “But isn’t young Jack more than a servant?” Eleanor wore her matronly smile. It had the power to either annoy or mollify him. Today he couldn’t tell which it was.
What could he say to her words? He wondered just what his responsibilities to Jack Tucker were. He had met the twelve-year-old only a few months ago when the young thief tried to steal Crispin’s purse. It was Jack who had insinuated himself into Crispin’s life as his servant, not the other way around. The boy could barely be trusted to keep his hands to himself even after many promises.
He made his thanks to Eleanor but offered no reply to her entreaty. He didn’t really want to see the boy hanged, but if Jack didn’t curb his ways, that was all that was left to him.
CRISPIN TRUDGED BACK TO the Shambles under a fine spray of drizzle. Up the steps to his lodgings, he unlocked the door and swept the room with a glance. No Jack, as usual. He dropped the bag on the table and poured himself more wine into the bowl that he had offered to Grayce. The wine burned down his throat with a satisfying heat, and he licked his lips. He felt better already.
He looked at the bundle on the table, took his bowl with him, and tossed aside the bag’s top flap. He ran his hand over the carved wood, turned the key, and opened the lid. The gold box seemed to glow from its place within the wooden casket. He set the bowl down and pulled out the golden box. Besides the gems that encrusted the casket, there were raised friezes of Christ’s journey to the cross encircling it, all crafted in beaten gold. He lifted the lid and stared at the strange object within. “Crown of Thorns,” he muttered. A fingertip toyed with a particularly nasty spike before he drew the circlet out of its container and held it aloft. He turned the crown to examine it. Chuckling, he darted his gaze about the obviously empty room, shook his head at his wary suspicions, and placed it on his head.
“The suffering servant,” he said without mirth. “That’s me.” He caught his reflection in the brass mirror pegged to a post above the basin and water jug. The crown had little appeal and did not improve his features. His blurry image suddenly made him feel like a fool, and he lifted the crown from his head. But in the indistinct reflection he noticed something dark on his wide brow and he raised his fingers there. Blood.
He examined the inside of the crown. He hadn’t felt any pain when he wore it, but there within were prickly thorns, and what looked like the vestiges of winding stems, all black with age. He placed the crown back within its reliquary and touched his wounds again. “Treacherous little relic.” Walking to the window overlooking the street, he pulled open the shutters. He leaned out and took a deep breath. The smell of the Shambles did not overpower today. Perhaps the wind blew in the opposite direction. Whatever the case, he suddenly felt too cooped up in the room. And he did have the task of reporting to the sheriff about the dead man.
Closing the shutters, he threw open the door and trotted down the stairs. He thought about food—he hadn’t eaten since last night—but didn’t feel hungry. He reached the bottom step and inhaled again, as if the act of filling his lungs and widening his rib cage were a new experience. In fact, the air was unaccountably renewing. So much so that he felt like leaping into the street. He wanted to run up the avenue like a young boy, like he used to do down the long lane from Lancaster’s house in the country to its main road. Strange, but exhilarating, this feeling.
And he wanted to forget his troubles—to forget Jack Tucker and his thieving ways, to forget the harsh looks from former peers when he made the odd encounter on the street. He wanted to allow these new sensations to wash over him, to take him like a rushing river far beyond these troubled shoals. His chest felt warm and his limbs bursting with energy. Strange, these feelings. But not unwelcome. Oh no. To feel such a sudden surge of fire in his blood brought him back to his knightly days when his hand curled around a sword hilt and he sped into battle, Lancaster at his side. Yes! It was very like that feeling. He was giddy with it. He hopped down into the street to take it in. He had a bright awareness of the world. The colors of garments were deeper. The smells of the street were stronger but not unpleasant. The men hurrying along, their bundles over their shoulders, seemed infinitely more interesting than before. He took a step into the muddy street . . . and stopped.
Martin Kemp’s plump daughter Matilda blocked his progress.
Crispin’s abrupt elation was sucked away like water down a gutter, especially when her gaze roved over him, a gaze that might hold more than insolence.
“Going somewhere?” she asked. Her small, piggy eyes blinked with what he thought was an attempt at coquette. On her it was a sloppy interpretation. “You’re always off somewhere. Out ‘Tracking,’ eh?” She giggled. It reminded Crispin of chickens clucking.
“Indeed.”
Still her wide hips blocked his path. “Oh. You’ve hurt yourself.” She pointed to the wounds along his forehead. He felt a trickle of blood and wiped it away. “You should put something on that,” she said. “It looks painful.”
“It isn’t, I assure you.”
“I could give you something. I could make a poultice.”
He gave a brief, insincere smile. “No, thank you.”
Once more, he tried to sidestep her but she moved to block him. “Always, you are so busy, so much in haste,” she said, twining the end of her apron around her fingers.
“I must work for my keep. As do you and your family.”
“Why is it you never take board with us? You’ve lived here four years and you’ve never done so.”
“I do not pay for board. It makes the rent cheaper.” And I don’t have to eat my meals looking at you. He longed to say it aloud. His tongue tingled with the possibility.