After a moment’s pause, Crispin pulled out the stool and settled himself. Resting his clasped hands on the table, he waited. He did not offer wine, for he did not want easy camaraderie just now. He preferred answers.
But Henry wasn’t giving any. He studied Crispin instead. If they weren’t to sit in silence for the remainder of the evening, then Crispin decided to blink first. “Well, Henry? What were you doing in St. Paul’s?”
“Would you believe me if I said it was a coincidence?”
“No.”
He chuckled and seemed to mean it this time. “Very well. I told you I wanted to help you in your investigations. And so I set out on my own, investigating … something. I did not know what I was to find.”
“Why to St. Paul’s?”
“Ah!” He laid a finger alongside his nose and grinned. “That I cannot say. But tell me. You seemed to think there was a ransom to be laid. Why? What is the crime?”
“I do not believe I can say either.”
“Fie on it! We cannot trust each other.”
“So it would seem.”
Henry closed his lips and tapped his fingers on the table.
Trying another tack, Crispin scooted closer. “What of the news of court? One doesn’t hear many details outside of Westminster Palace. And what is heard is surely little better than rumor.”
“First, why don’t you serve us some meat? And I brought wine. That miserable piss you call wine nearly burned through my gut.”
Crispin reddened at his words but saw it, sitting beneath his back windowsill. A shouldered jug of mustard-colored glaze stamped with the arms of Lancaster. He fetched it as well as two bowls and poured a dose in each before setting them on the table and kneeling by the meat. He used his knife to cut off steaming hunks. The juices flowed as his blade sliced, and his stomach growled. He had not eaten fine cuts of meat such as this in a very long time. He dropped the slices in a ceramic pot beside the hearth and brought that, too, to the table.
Henry poked into it with his knife and brought out a slice. He blew on it and nibbled on the crispy end. Crispin did the same, chewing the moist, savory meat, grateful to have it. Henry took a swig from his bowl and smiled. “French wine. Go on. I think it will be to your taste.”
Crispin sipped. It reminded him of the old days, of dinners sitting at the head table with Lancaster on one side and young Henry on the other. “It is very good. Thank you, my lord, for the wine and the meat.”
He waved his hand and continued to eat. “You asked about court,” he went on with his mouth full. He wiped the wet from his mustache with a finger. “And I tell you, Crispin, I wish you were in my retinue.”
So do I. But he would not voice it aloud. Instead, he bent his head to his meal, looking up only when Henry seemed to want acknowledgment that he heard.
After a time when they both fell silent, eating and drinking, Crispin suddenly said, “By the way, the sheriffs are looking for you.”
Henry chuckled. “Are they? Did you tell them that you saw me?”
“No. Nor shall I. Unless it proves necessary.”
Henry looked up from his food. “‘Proves necessary’? Why, Crispin. Are you not still loyal to the house of Lancaster?”
“My new fealty is to the law, your grace.”
Henry stared at him, clearly surprised. Crispin chewed his food uncomfortably. The lamb stuck to his throat when he tried to swallow. He cleared his palate with a little wine, and then he sawed at his meat again, not looking up at Derby. “Why do you shy from court?”
Henry poured himself more wine. “Because, my dear Crispin, I have no wish to follow in your footsteps and be arrested for treason myself.” The blunt delivery was not meant to wound, but the words always made him wince, like rubbing a sore spot. “I am not a traitor. I and my commissioners merely wish for my cousin to see to what detriment he is bringing the realm. He has no heirs, yet he has far too many favorites and bestows on these men honors and titles they do not deserve, honors that are more fitting for his own kin. They are taking advantage of his good graces and he does not see that they spend the treasury as if it were their own strongbox.”
“Surely Parliament-”
“Parliament acts as his tool. Five lords stand between the king and despotism: my uncle Gloucester, Richard Fitzalan the earl of Arundel, Thomas Beauchamp the earl of Warwick, Thomas Mowbray the earl of Nottingham … and me.”
“Do you truly believe that, Henry?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be happily at my estates in Chester or in Spain with Father.”
“But … what can be done? Last year you made no friends at court trying to impose your will over Richard.”
“Not our will, Crispin. He might have been anointed by God, but he is still lawfully bound to do good in the realm. We merely want to remind him that there are limits to his powers by law and that he must protect the privileges of his lords.”
“How does your father the duke see this move?”
“My uncle Gloucester has a fire in his belly over it. He has sent messages to the earl of March.”
The sweet wine went sour on Crispin’s tongue. “Roger Mortimer? The … king’s designated heir?”
Henry seemed unusually interested in his meat and would not look up. “It is only a precaution.”
“Does Richard know messages have been sent to March?”
“No. It is not advised that he does, though I have little doubt that he has some inkling. Hence the accusation of treason.”
Crispin clutched his knife, thinking faraway thoughts.
“And so,” said Henry, “you are uneasy at my presence.”
Crispin got up from the table, wiped his knife on a rag by the bucket, and washed his hands. “I am now. But you haven’t answered my question. What does your father say?”
Henry looked cross for only a moment and then seemed to let it go. “He … is not pleased by it. He begged us to await his return, but we cannot. We cannot let these grievances continue to compound. Who knows when Father will return?”
Crispin made his way to the fire and stood with his back to it, relishing the warmth. “But you can see his point of view, can you not? When Richard first took the throne, Parliament expected that your father would steal it from him. Conspiracies abounded.” He shuffled, eyes downcast. “As you well know,” he said softly. “He swore again and again to Parliament that he would uphold Richard as king. He will not forswear himself now.”
The young lord rose and went to the same bucket to sluice his hands. “My father is not here, Crispin. I am my own man. And times are different.”
“If you say so, my lord. It is just that … well.”
“Well?” He stomped back to the table, moved around it to face Crispin toe to toe. “What? Speak!”
Crispin rocked before the fire. “Young men are hot to see their way and often move forward without considering the consequences.” More quietly, he said, “When my troubles began, I was not too much older than you are now, my lord.”
“How dare you! You say that to me? Me, who has led armies and fought battles?”
“Be still, Henry!” It came out how he used to say it, when Henry was a child and he needed correction, and Henry reacted much as he used to do. He snapped to and stared wide-eyed at his former minder. “I have led armies, too, do not forget,” said Crispin. “And I am older and more experienced than you. Why else would you have come to me? To hear me agree with everything you say? I was never that man. I never will be. That much should be obvious, even to you!”
Chastened, Henry took a step back, considered, then swiveled and walked slowly to the front window. He pushed the shutter open to stare down at the snow-covered Shambles.
“I have always valued your advice,” Henry said softly. “I sought you out more than I did my own father. After all, you were often there when he was not. I came to think of you as…” He inhaled the cold air, hand resting on his hip. The street below still held his attention. “You left me,” he said quietly, voice roughened from the cold, or so Crispin hoped.