When Brother John returned, he was carrying a small coffer wrapped in a silky cloth. He handed it to Crispin.
It was heavy. He looked to the abbot, puzzled.
“It is a chess set. Brother Nicholas mentioned spending many a pleasant afternoon with you playing games of strategy. He often spoke of you fondly.” His expression took on one of bewilderment, as if he could not fathom the like.
Crispin looked around the room, searching for that familiar chess set, but did not find it. Apparently, it was now under his arm.
“At any rate,” continued the abbot, “we did not know how to get it to you, but Brother Eric was certain that you would somehow … appear.”
Bollocks. Who was easier to find than Crispin? How would he get clients if they could not find him? Bah! It mattered little in the end. Crispin clutched the box tightly. It was a fine remembrance of the man.
“I thank you, my Lord Abbot. I bid you God’s grace.”
The abbot signed the cross over Crispin, but even as he passed over the threshold, the abbot called out one last time, “Discretion, Master Guest.” As if he needed reminding.
He tucked the heavy box under his arm as he made the long walk home in the falling light. He wondered about the man he had just met, wondered how he would receive the news of Henry’s lords forcing the king to bend to their will. Would he be an ally to Richard or would he prefer to stay clear of politics? In Crispin’s experience, clerics seldom stayed on the fence.
He was back on the Shambles just as the church bells struck Compline. He trudged up the stairs and opened the door, pleased to find Jack there.
“We had another visit from Lord Henry?” asked the boy, gesturing toward the wood and the meat, cooling off to the side of the hearth.
“Yes. I will tell you of that later.” He set the box on the table and unwrapped the cloth from it.
Jack approached the table and looked it over. “What’s that?”
“A bequest from Abbot Nicholas.”
“Oh.” It was part sigh, part exclamation.
Crispin opened the coffer and took out the chessboard. The pieces lay snugly in their own velvet-lined niches. He set up the board. “It’s a chessboard, Jack.”
“It’s beautiful, Master Crispin. Is it worth a lot?”
“Probably.” He examined one ivory pawn before placing it on its square. “But worth far more in memories.”
“I remembered it from the abbot’s lodgings, sir. You played often with Abbot Nicholas, didn’t you?”
“As often as time permitted. It never seemed like enough time.”
The abbot favored the white men, and Crispin automatically set up the board so that black was on his side. He looked up at Jack. “Would you like to learn to play?”
Jack’s eyes brightened. “Oh yes, sir! Indeed, sir!” He scrambled for the stool and pulled it up to the table, sitting and waiting.
“First,” said Crispin. “What did you learn from the priest about those symbols?”
Jack picked up a knight, examining the intricate detail of the carving. “They was all over, sir. He pointed them out on our way back to his church, but I found a few more when returning home. Most were scratched out. What do they mean?”
He shook his head, toying with the king. “I don’t know. We must find that preacher again.”
“I hear of him, that is for certain. He should not be difficult to find. I’ll begin my search again first thing in the morning. But in the meantime…” He placed the knight back on its square. “Can you not tell me of this game, Master?”
He smiled. “And so, each piece has its own rules. Each moves differently, can achieve different ends. But the object of the game is to capture the king. When the king can move no more, when he has nowhere to go, then he is lost.”
Jack gave him a significant look.
“Yes, well. It does have its parallels in our current political circumstances. It is a game of strategy. Of thinking far ahead of the current state of the board. Of being able to adjust your thinking depending on what is presented to you.”
“Blind me, sir. It’s like what we do all the time.”
“Indeed. As I said, it’s a fine metaphor for the games of court and politics. But unlike politics, the outcome can sometimes be predicted. Even directed.”
Crispin grasped his pawn and moved it two squares forward, but just as he placed it on the square, a knock sounded on the door.
They both straightened, hands on their knife hilts. At a signal from Crispin, Jack went to the door and opened it.
Avelyn stood there, hands behind her back, rocking from side to side. When she spied Crispin, her smile widened impossibly.
She rushed past Jack, nearly toppling him. “Oi! Watch it!”
She stopped right in front of Crispin, looking up at him with her chin high. It bared her throat, and a long, lovely throat it is, he mused, though it was slightly marred by his love bites. His eyes could not help but travel downward to the shadow of her bosom, where he remembered proffering a few more gentle nibbles.
They looked at each other for a while before Jack loudly let out a gust of exasperation. “I’ll be outside, I reckon,” he grumbled, grabbing his cloak, and he slammed the door behind him.
Crispin didn’t even wait for the last click of the lock. His hands reached up and grasped her shoulders and slid up to her neck. He ran his fingers over her hair, but it was tightly braided again into one long plait. “I do prefer your hair loose,” he said softly.
She moved her face into his hand, nuzzling. She lifted her arms, running her hands up his chest until she reached his neck and tugged him down. He bent obligingly and their lips touched. He opened his mouth over hers, clutched her small frame, and lifted her off the floor. Her feet dangled just below his knees. She weighed nothing at all.
Their tongues tangled slowly, slick and wet, and one hand traveled down her back, lower, until he was able to cup one arsecheek and squeeze it.
They kissed for a long time, until he drew his mouth away mere inches from hers. “Have you come with a message from your master?” he asked breathlessly, thinking that he should at least ask the question. Her mistress was, after all, still in peril.
But he wasn’t far enough away for her to see his lips and he quickly forgot the question and molded his mouth to hers again. They kissed another few moments before she tore away and landed on her feet. Swallowing hard, he shook his head to clear it. “Avelyn?” He didn’t even realize he was still reaching for her when she pushed him back. With determination she shook her head and then started to gesture.
“You know I can’t understand.” He slipped his hands around her petite waist and pulled. When she was flush against him, his hands cupped her jaw and he bent over and found her mouth again. She kissed back, but with far less enthusiasm and pushed him away again.
He looked down at her in puzzlement and she continued to sign.
“Clearly you are trying to tell me something.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You are right, of course. Something must be done about Madam Flamel.” What did he know of abductions? For the most part, he knew of instances where knights were captured on the battlefield and they would be kept until a ransom was paid. They lived at ease, for the most part, for courtesy demanded they be treated with care, only they were unable to leave the precincts of whatever castle or manor house kept them. Even Richard Lionheart was kept for years until his brother, Prince John, collected enough ransom in taxes to set him free.
And on the streets of London, a woman might be captured by her rival’s family until her own family agreed to marry her off to the abductor’s son. Such things were not entirely legal but were well-known.