“Let’s get in,” said Crispin, climbing the stairs. “Keep watch. I don’t want to be coshed like Lord Henry.”
Jack stayed at the bottom of the stairs while Crispin drew his dagger. After examining the door with cold fingers, he slid the blade between door and jamb and managed to force the bolt. The door creaked open.
“Come along, Jack,” he hissed.
Jack’s muffled steps crossed the landing and Crispin told him to bolt the door again. Kicking dead leaves, he walked across the littered floor. “Does it look the same, Jack? Has it changed since we encountered it earlier today?”
“I … I suppose. I think it’s the same.”
“Are you certain? We must be certain, or we’ve thrown away the most valuable clue.”
He looked around helplessly. “Yes, I … but I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Don’t you?” Crispin strode to the nearest pillar with its intricate carvings on its plinth and capital. He set his foot on the ledge of the plinth and hoisted himself up. There was enough pitting and cracks in the column’s cylinder to stick his foot in and pull himself higher. Holding on to the stone foliate of the capital, Crispin turned, looking down.
The room was dark. Slivers of light cast stripes on the tiled floor from the shuttered windows, just enough for Crispin to see. “God’s blood,” he whispered.
Hopping down, he gestured toward the pillar. “You go,” he said to Jack.
Jack gave him a doubtful expression. It was full of his assertion that Crispin had finally gone mad, but as always, Jack shook his head and shuffled to comply. His foot lodged on the plinth and limber legs wrapped around the column as he shimmied upward. Fingers wrapped themselves over the carved foliations as Crispin had done. Nearly hanging free like an ape, he swiveled and looked down. “I’m looking,” he confirmed.
“But what do you see?”
“A floor. Some statues.”
Crispin punched his fist into his hip. “What sort of floor?”
“Checkered.”
“And?”
“And … I don’t know what you want me to see, Master.”
“Keep looking.”
He heard some grumbling and a few oaths before Jack switched hands and swung the other way. “I’m still looking,” he said.
“And still not seeing. When I think of the hours I spent tutoring you on the finer points of observation…”
“Wait!” He saw it dawn on the boy’s face. It was unmistakable in the widening of his eyes and the sudden slackness of his jaw. “God blind me with a poker! It’s a chessboard!”
“See here,” said Crispin, pointing to the floor at the base of one of the statues. “See the marks on the tiles where it was deliberately dragged to this spot?”
“Aye, Master. So now. What does it mean?”
“Well, let’s look at it.”
One statue was of a female saint. “Let’s call this a queen,” said Crispin, running his hand over the cold stone. Just to the left of the “queen” stood a figure, which leaned against a rocky brace, but on closer examination, the rocky outcropping appeared to be a castle tower. “And this a rook.” Another figure stood nearby, and in his hand he held a harp.
Across the room stood another figure. Carved from marble, the figure seemed to be emerging from another castle-looking structure. Beside it a few squares down was another figure of a saint wearing robes and a miter. “A bishop.” Crispin eyed them all. “Jack, from your vantage, whose move is it?”
“I can’t be sure, sir. But I’d say the queen was about to be captured by the rook. The … erm … pawn-if that fellow with the harp could be called so-is not in a position to help her.”
“Yes. But I see no king on this board.”
“There, sir.” Jack pointed. Crispin followed the track of his finger and came upon a wreath of ivy on a black square, hidden by a swath of dried leaves.
“A crown?”
“So it would seem, sir.”
“Hmm. What does this tell us?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“You may come down.”
Jack didn’t bother climbing. He leapt away from the pillar like a squirrel leaping from a tree and landed on his feet. He joined Crispin and stood beside him. “I suppose the queen is meant to represent Perenelle Flamel?”
“Possibly. A castle will capture her … or she is near a castle. But there are two on the board. Two castles.”
“Two castles,” Jack murmured. “Two kingdoms? France and England? No.” He snapped his fingers. “Two castles … The Tower, sir, and Westminster Palace!”
“Correct. But which one is which?”
The “queen” was soon to be overtaken by the castle figure to her right. Crispin walked over to it and circled it, and then the “pawn.” No help there. He walked over to the other “castle,” looked it over, and then rested his hand on the “bishop.” “This rook has a bishop,” he said. “What does that suggest?”
Squinting his entire face, including eyes shut tight, Tucker thought hard. “Bishop. Bishop and a castle.” His eyes snapped open. “The abbey, sir? Westminster?”
“Indeed. So the other must be the Tower of London.”
“She’s near the Tower, then! I told you! Let’s go!” He spun on his heel to race away, but Crispin grabbed the point of his hood.
“Not so hasty, Tucker. We don’t know where by the Tower.”
Jack slumped. “Oh. Right.”
Crispin walked back to the “queen” and patted the head of the “pawn.” “What of this fellow?”
“The pawn. You?”
“If that were the case, then I would think that our knave’s sense of wit would have to have made him a knight instead. But it is true I do feel like a pawn in this. No. He is a squire of sorts. Some saint or other personage. And he is carrying a harp.”
“He’s a minstrel. Should we look for a minstrel? No, no. That’s foolish. A harp is a symbol for the Irish. Could he be an Irishman, this knave?”
“You’re thinking too hard, Jack. And at any rate, if I am right, he is a Frenchman. I was supposing Harp Lane. It is near the Tower.”
“Blind me! It is!” He ran his hand over his jaw. “What will we find there, Master? Will Madam Flamel just … be there for the taking?”
“I very much doubt that. I suspect more tricks, more games.”
“When should we go?”
“Tomorrow. And not you. Me. I’ve already told you. You have another job to do.”
“But I won’t need to guard Master Flamel if you find Madam Perenelle.”
“There’s more to this than one madman, Jack. Far more. Lord Derby has been dragged into it, and that means a conspiracy. Richard needs to know that his closest men are arranging some mischief to one of the heirs to the throne.”
Jack gasped. “But … but Lord Henry is not the heir. That’s some other noble. The earl of March … isn’t it?”
“Let me see if I can explain this. Roger Mortimer, earl of March, is descended in the female line from Edward III’s second son, whilst Henry is descended from the third son. Do you see? His grace John the duke of Lancaster is the third son of King Edward, not the first, as was Edward of Woodstock, Richard’s father, or the second son, Lionel of Antwerp. Lionel would have been second in line. Therefore, because Lionel’s only child, Philippa, married into the Mortimer family and bore Roger, Richard’s cousin, it is Roger earl of March who is the presumptive heir. And if he has no sons, then it may still fall to Henry.”
Jack blinked. “Blind me. It’s complicated, isn’t it?”
“Very. But most important.”
Jack sucked on his fingers. “Lord Derby. So he could be the heir. He could be the next king. Blind me! He’s been in our lodgings!”
“Yes. A few times now.”
“Christ! The heir to the throne.” Jack fell silent, thoughtful. He raised his eyes under his long fringe. “Master, Lord Derby. He isn’t … that is … he isn’t trying to … to…”
“No.” The boy was sometimes too perceptive. “I … I am quite certain of that.” Though he wasn’t certain at all. “He is sincere in his desire to see that Richard is put on the right path. Many of the noble houses would like to see Richard put aside these favorites of his. He has no choice. He must.”