Crispin girded himself, nodded to the monk, and allowed the man to lead him along the familiar path to the abbot’s lodgings.
The early twilit sky bathed the courtyard in tints of blue. The snow-patched grass was brown, but a rabbit in the far corner nibbled tentatively, looking for green shoots that were yet months away from appearing.
Ravens called to one another from the red-tiled rooftops of the abbey precincts, looking like monks themselves in their dark raiment and scowling down at Crispin for trespassing.
Brother Eric suddenly stopped and gestured toward the worn stone path. “You know the rest of the way, I daresay, Master Crispin.”
“Thank you, Brother.” Crispin continued down the path, stepping up to the doorway. He knocked and waited. At length, the door opened, and a young monk with a pale face and a noticeable shadow of a beard peered at him from out of his cowl.
“Yes? Who are you?”
He bowed. “I am Crispin Guest, Brother. Brother Eric instructed me-”
“Oh!” The young monk’s face opened into smiles and he threw back his hood, stepped forward, and grabbed Crispin’s arm. “You are the famed Crispin Guest? Come in, come in.”
Crispin stepped into the comfortable surroundings he knew so well. The warmth of the abbot’s parlor thawed his bones. But amid the familiar was the unaccustomed sound of a harp playing a quiet tune. Abbot Nicholas was not given to the enjoyment of music. Things were different in the abbot’s lodge these days.
“I have heard much about you from the other brothers,” the monk continued. “I am Brother John.” He bowed. “I will let Abbot William know you are here.” He bowed again and left through an arch into the abbot’s private solar.
Crispin waited, listening to the somber notes of the harp, until Brother John returned. “Will you come with me? Can I get you refreshment, sir? Wine?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He turned the corner and spied a monk sitting at a long, rectangular table. The man wore the vestments of his office, a gown of black wool, but they were also trimmed in dark fur and subtle embroidery. It was not overly resplendent, but neither would an observer question his power and wealth. He was older than Crispin, older even than the duke of Lancaster, but he wore his years well. His fleshy face, round nose, and prominent chin looked more like those of a tradesman, but Crispin knew him to be a man of property.
The room itself looked different. Chairs with crimson cushions and an ambry that Nicholas had not possessed were situated about the room. Likewise a tapestry hung on a far wall depicting Adam and Eve. The abbot sat at a table covered with a fine carpet in maroons and gold thread, and on either side of him, large silver candelabras lit his work with tall beeswax candles. A corona of more candles hung in the middle of the room, lighting the vaulted space in cheerful, golden light. Gratifying to Crispin was a shelf against a wall with a good number of books and scrolls ensconced upon it. He itched to peruse the shelf himself, as he often did when Nicholas was at home, sometimes reading the texts in silence next to the older man, while Nicholas schemed with his seneschal, contriving some hunting festivity on his lands he was planning for the nobility of court.
A fire burned warm and bright in the hearth, and beside it sat the harpist on a stool, plucking a song on the strings of the instrument balanced on his thighs.
Crispin searched for the old greyhound, Horatio, that used to sit at Abbot Nicholas’s feet, but he surmised that the dog was also gone, not long after its master left this earth.
The abbot pored over his ledgers, quill scratching. He continued to write without looking up. Meanwhile, Brother John proffered a folding chair for Crispin, silently bade him sit, and soon brought him a silver goblet filled with floral-scented wine. Crispin tasted it, and the sweet flavors surged in his mouth. Even better than the Lancaster wine Henry had brought. Having little better to do, he drank and watched the harpist play for a while before he turned his attention toward the abbot. The man’s finger slid carefully down the page over notation after notation, before his quill made a sharp check by each one.
“So you are Crispin Guest,” he said, startling Crispin, as he had not looked up or stopped what he was doing. His voice was strong, his mouth set in a stern frown.
Crispin rose slightly as he bowed. “Indeed. May I offer my congratulations at your appointment as abbot of Westminster?”
The abbot’s pale blue eyes rose to him only briefly before turning back to his pages. “You may,” he said in a clipped Essex accent. “Though I was compromissioned last December by my own monks. I suppose these tidings are new to London nearly a year late.”
Crispin longed to ask how Richard took this news but held his tongue. After all, he did not know William de Colchester. He did not think he was in Richard’s pocket since his election went against the royal favor, but after a year, Crispin assumed Richard had made peace with the decision or would very well soon have to.
The abbot laid his quill aside, sprinkled sand on his ledger, blew it off, and closed the books. He rested his hands on the leather cover and studied Crispin from across his table. “You are this Tracker they speak of,” he said without preamble. “My predecessor seemed intrigued by this vocation of yours. But I am well acquainted with your tale. I am not as enamored.”
Crispin tapped his finger against his goblet. “Abbot Nicholas and I were friends. We were friends before my disseisement and we continued our friendship after. Discreetly. If you fear that my being here has endangered you in any way-”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Be at ease, Master Guest. I shall not toss you out to save myself.”
Crispin raised a brow at that.
“No,” the abbot went on, “not that I wish to be a martyr, either. But I am, perhaps, more cautious than our dear late brother. And so I hope that you will not have too many occasions to visit the abbey. Except to use the church, of course, for the enlightenment of your soul.”
And don’t allow the door to hit you as you make a hasty exit, thought Crispin with a grim smile. He rose and set his goblet aside. “I see. That sounds like a request to leave.”
“Not at all,” said the abbot, making no move to stop him. “Our dear Abbot Litlyngton advised me on you, Master Guest.”
Crispin paused. “Oh?”
“Indeed. He told me to trust you. But also to guide you. I will, of course, do my best. You are, after all, a soul in need of much guidance.”
Crispin scuffed his boot against the floor. “A man is never too old for guidance, especially where his soul is concerned. Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all. But I would not let it trouble you, my Lord Abbot. I doubt I shall return for your good counsel.” He bowed and strode toward the door, jaw clenched.
“I would not be so hasty,” said the abbot, rising from his chair at last. The harpist continued to play, the soft strains serving as a counterpoint to the tension between the men. The abbot walked around the table. “One never knows when counsel will be needed and in what form it might take.”
“True. But I am not often to go at my leisure where I am clearly unwelcomed.”
“Did I leave you with that impression?” He looked Crispin up and down. They were of similar height. “Not at all.” Crispin itched to leave, but the abbot suddenly seemed reluctant to allow him to do so. “I asked to see you,” said the abbot, “because Brother Nicholas bequeathed something to you.”
Crispin stiffened. The thought was painful and at the same time warmed a spot in his chest. Abbot William motioned to Brother John, who had entered from a rear door, and whispered something into the monk’s ear. Brother John nodded and trotted off. The abbot didn’t move. His stoic posture spoke of his years as the abbey’s emissary. No doubt there were many such instances where he was forced to wait in the halls of Bruges, Paris, or Rome, and he had learned how to do so with patience and calm.