“I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to leave you.”
“I hated those times, Crispin. No one would say anything. No one would tell me what had happened to you. And when I tried to ask, I was silenced. I had nightmares for years afterwards, thinking that they would come for me, too.” He turned then.
With his wide, dark eyes and his fragile mouth, Henry suddenly seemed like the child he had been ten years ago. In the depth of that gaze, the years of hurt and uncertainty rolled forth like words on a scroll. Crispin could only imagine how it must have been for young Henry. His best playmate, his child-minder, suddenly gone, and Crispin’s name spoken of only in hesitant whispers. Certainly Henry must have known, must have been told eventually.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Henry barked a laugh. “You’re apologizing to me?”
“I would never have hurt you, my lord, or dared put you or the duke at risk.”
“I know.” He returned to staring out the window again. His hand rested on the squeaky shutter. “I am a father now. I am not at my son’s cradle every hour of the day. I well understand that others must take on the duty of advising and teaching my son. I have my own duties. As did my father. As did you, I daresay.”
“So why will you not listen to the advice you so crave?”
He faced Crispin once again. “My uncle Gloucester also offered his sage advice. He is in the thick of it with me and understands more clearly. More than I can explain to you. I listen to his guidance as well, and he thinks we should press on. It is what is right, Crispin. Richard cannot be allowed to go on as he has. He must be made to see reason, and if he will not do it of his own accord, he will be made to do it. King or not.”
Crispin nodded. “Very well. Your mind is made up on the matter. So why come to me?”
“To apologize. To show you what I have accomplished. To help you, where I can. And to ask … that you not interfere.”
“My lord…”
“I’m only asking, Crispin. No more threats.”
Henry strode toward the door, then plucked his cloak from its peg and slipped it over his shoulders. The fur lining looked pleasantly warm. He pulled the door open and stopped when Crispin called out to him.
“Henry. Can you truly tell me nothing of why you were in St. Paul’s?”
Henry did not turn as he gritted out a laugh. “Stick to the crimes you can solve, Crispin, and stay away from the rest.”
A swirl of snow spiraled in over the threshold, taking Henry with it as he closed the door.
12
Feeling unsettled, Crispin left his lodgings. He felt unclean, as if he had just been manipulated. Henry was his father’s son, true enough. He might not be able to tell Crispin what he was doing at the cathedral, but it didn’t mean Crispin wasn’t going to damn well find out what it was.
He needed to clear his head, for much of it was stuffed with the wool of Henry and his deceptions, the much-felt absence of Lancaster, the dead apprentice, the stubborn alchemist … and his strangely beautiful servant.
Flamel had not wanted to divulge if he had such a thing as the Philosopher’s Stone, or what he believed to be the Stone. But Avelyn had no such reservations. She had wanted Crispin to know. Why else would she have brought him to the second alchemist?
And he definitely wanted to talk to this Robert Pickthorn, the preacher. It seemed unbelievable that his fiery speeches and the symbols on London’s streets could possibly be related to the dead apprentice, but he had seen the like before. Recent events had molded him into less of a skeptic than he used to be.
When he looked up from walking, he realized he had been going west, following the Thames. Lantern light glittered off the surging water and darkness descended over the city. He skirted a water carrier straining under the yoke of his burden, a last trip from one of many of London’s cisterns. He did not envy such men, especially in the winter, for it meant perpetually frozen hands and cold water splashing over one’s legs. He hoped they were paid well.
He could have stopped his wandering at Ludgate. He should have, and returned to the Shambles, but he kept going, following the Strand, and then before he knew it, Charing Cross came into view ahead.
He arrived at the crossroads. The stone cross and its rambling structure of arches, covered in snow, served as mean shelter to a young beggar. The boy crouched in its shadow out of the weather, staring at Crispin with large, luminous eyes as he passed. He tossed the boy a silver penny, always thinking of Jack Tucker when he saw such beggars. The boy scrambled out of his shelter, snatched the coin from the snow, and ran off into the gloom.
It wasn’t long before Crispin stood outside the spires of Westminster Abbey. Its gray stone stood dark against the pale sky. He stared up at it a long time until he felt foolish, like some country pilgrim, and walked up the long path to the north entrance. It was marginally warmer on the inside. No wind, but the stone arches, columns, and tile held the cold close to it, like a virgin over her virtue, refusing to let it go.
Men gathered in furtive clutches, conferring, seeking employment, just as they did at St. Paul’s in London. A frail man in a long dark gown approached Crispin. “Clerk, sir? Have you need of an accomplished clerk to pen your documents before the day is out?”
“No, thank you.”
Disappointed, the man bowed and wandered away.
Down the nave was the quire and beyond that the rood. Monks moved silently, lighting candles that had gone out or sweeping the floor with mute brooms. Always, they kept a judicious eye peeled on the men wandering the nave. There were gold candlesticks to protect, after all, gilt stone to keep an eye on. It was not uncommon to catch a man scraping the gilt from a stone runner with his knife blade.
The nave walkers would be ushered out soon enough. The day was over and it was time to think of the morrow and start again.
Crispin walked down the long space, skirted the quire, and came upon the rood screen. Beyond it hung a wooden cross with the figure of Christ, lit by two large candles below it. Crispin gazed at it through the open woodwork of the screen.
He stood a while before he felt the presence of the monk long before the man spoke.
“Master Crispin. It is good to see you. It has almost been a year since last you came.”
He turned but hadn’t needed to. “Brother Eric. God keep you, sir.”
“And you.” They stood silently, both in their own thoughts, when the monk spoke aloud what they were both thinking. “He is sorely missed, is Abbot Nicholas.”
“Indeed. I do miss him greatly.”
“I was told that whenever you returned, I was to take you to Abbot William.”
“Oh? So the archdeacon William Colchester was made abbot? I thought the king favored Brother John Lakyngheth.”
Eric glanced carefully over his shoulder before he answered. “Our treasurer was so favored by his grace the king … but the monks elected our archdeacon instead last year. The pope’s commission only arrived a month ago, but our abbot has been serving faithfully even when his appointment was in doubt.”
Crispin knew that Colchester had spent much of his years in the monastery on foreign travel, going to and from Rome. He was a man of books, so Abbot Nicholas had said. Crispin had met the man only once, years ago. Now he was abbot, taking the place of a much-beloved man.
“Are you still Abbot William’s chaplain, as you so served Abbot Nicholas?”
The monk, a man much the same age as Crispin, though there was gray in the hair at his temples, gave a condoling smile. His hands were tucked warmly in the sleeves of his habit. “Alas. His temperament is different from our former abbot’s. His needs are therefore different. I will escort you, but Brother John Sandon and Brother Thomas Merke will attend you.”