The smirk was back as Henry rose. “Yes, I can see that,” he said into his shirt. “But I shall not be put off, Crispin. This tracking you do. How do you go about it?”
“My lord?”
“I mean, a weaver cards the wool and spins it into thread and then his thread is eased into the loom and he weaves. But you find, say, a dead man. How would you proceed? Further, from what I hear, many of your assignments seem to exclude anyone who has seen or heard anything of the crime. It is impossible, what you do. How is it done?”
He couldn’t help but be flattered by Henry’s interest, and he felt his cheeks heat up. No one had ever asked him before. Even Jack seemed to learn it by example. “I … I observe. The area around the corpse. How long ago he was killed and by what means. I ask questions and listen carefully to the answers. I am an interpreter of lies.”
“Just like the old days, eh, Crispin?”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “Yes. I find that court politics was good practice for my current vocation. And just as deadly.”
“But these questions you ask. How do you know whom to ask?”
“Sometimes the answer to that presents itself. Sometimes I stumble upon it. And sometimes I ferret it out for myself after much digging. That is what makes it rewarding, after a fashion. The work that must be done is primarily in the mind.”
Henry smiled. “I can see how that suits you. And how much…” He looked away. “How much righting wrongs suits you as well.”
Crispin nodded. He caught only a glimpse of Jack’s fond gaze. “But surely there is another motive for your being here,” he said to Henry. “After all, you are a busy man and I am not deaf to the rumors circulating throughout London. These are troubled times. And your father-”
“My father is not here,” he said, losing something of his cheer.
“And the king has said that those who oppose his … his decisions, are traitors. I know you have been appointed by these commissioners, Henry, to raise an army. If you oppose Richard, force him to do the will of Parliament, impede in any way his royal rights, then it shall be called treason. Indeed, he threatened that he was anointed by God and, as such, may dissolve Parliament.”
Derby gritted his teeth. “Just so. And even invoking the name of his sovereign ancestor Edward II in these terms was construed to be an act of treason.”
Little wonder, Crispin snorted, when Edward II was deposed for insisting on similar rights … and with fewer favorites than had Richard.
“So you will forgive me,” he said, bowing to Derby, “if I seem skeptical at your personal interest in my welfare. If there is something you want of me, you should simply ask. I think it particularly imprudent of you to come to my lodgings at this time.” He leaned forward. “You do know you might be in danger,” he said quietly. “And you are most certainly being followed.”
“Am I?” He turned toward the fire, but Crispin caught the edge of his smile. “Well, while it is true that I am occupied with curtailing the treasury and my cousin the king from imprudence, there is always time for leisure, to visit friends.” The sparkle in his eyes dimmed and he spoke confidentially, for Crispin’s ears. “But a word of caution is in order. Do take care, Crispin. Keep a sharp eye in the direction of Westminster. There’s a storm on the horizon. I do not trust Richard’s advisers. Especially those who were once loyal to my father.”
“Suffolk,” Crispin breathed.
Henry barely nodded. “Stay awake, Crispin.”
He strode to the door, stopping in front of Jack. He tapped his knuckles none too gently to the boy’s chest, making him take a step back. His smile and sparkle had returned. “Take care, young apprentice, or you shall find your shoes filled by a better man.” He laughed and opened the door. “It is good to see you, Crispin. God keep you.” His laughter echoed all the way down the stairs.
Jack went to the door and slammed it hard before he threw the bolt. He swung to face Crispin, glared at him once, before stomping to the fire. He picked up the iron and jabbed the wood with it, watching the logs crumble into glowing blocks of coal.
Crispin dragged himself wearily to the bed and sat. With a long sigh he fell back, throwing an arm over his eyes. The room felt unnaturally warm and comfortable. Enough wood in the hearth, for once, kept the small room snug while the snow fell relentlessly outside. After a long pause wherein Tucker said nothing but could be heard clanging the iron against the stone hearth, Crispin finally said, “He brought fuel, at least. We are warm, for once.”
“He’d be better than me, there’s no mistaking that.” Jack’s tone was sour and he spoke low to the fire. “He’s rich. He’s handsome. He’s better than me in every way I can think of.”
God’s blood. Jealous again? Every new person in their life lately had caused Jack to lose his nerve, to grow insecure of his place. Was it his age? Did Crispin act this way when he was fifteen? Possibly. Fifteen was a time for stretching one’s legs, for doing battle and riding furiously. Crispin had been a blur at fifteen. Why shouldn’t Jack feel anxious? “Give it a rest, Tucker. He will not replace you. For one, he is a lord and heir. Why would he content himself with doing our business? He has far more important work to do.” He winced at that. Those sentiments could have been better expressed.
Jack snorted and Crispin heard the chair creak as he leaned it back. “He shall rule the duke’s lands someday,” Jack muttered. “He is leading an army now, isn’t he? But we find murderers and stop them. Murder is a great sin. What’s more important than that?”
You are seeking a knot in a bulrush. “Be still, Jack, and stop being a fool. No one’s replacing you. Now give me a little peace so I may recover myself.”
Jack fell silent again and Crispin let his worries fall away. He let thoughts of Henry and Lancaster and treason disperse. It wasn’t long till he dozed.
He awoke with a start and saw that it was early morning. Jack was already up, casting his wash water out the back garden window. Crispin squinted at the rosy sky. Clear, at least. No snow today if God smiled on them. But he shivered at the cold draft, and Jack snapped the shutter closed.
“Good morning, Master. Should we not go in search of Madam Flamel today?”
Oh God. That hadn’t been a dream, then? He rubbed his head, shaking loose the cobwebs. “Remind me, Jack. What is it we are doing … exactly?”
With his fists at his hips, Jack glared at him. “Don’t you recall anything?”
“Well … I seem to recall … a French alchemist?” Jack nodded. “And a strange female servant?”
“Aye.”
“And then…?”
“God blind me, Master Crispin! You give a man gray whiskers. Here’s a client-a paying client-and you don’t remember?”
He cradled his head from Jack’s loud admonishment. “Give me a moment.”
“Well, I was there, too, so I can tell you all about it, I suppose.”
Jack moved about the room, fetching Crispin’s wash water and explaining about the missing wife and apprentice; how they had gone to the apprentice’s family, but the man wasn’t there. And then, as he handed Crispin a bowl of watery broth, he mentioned curtly about the unexpected visitation of Henry of Derby.
Oh, yes. Crispin seemed to remember that! He made a secret glance at Jack as he stoked the fire and noted the red tips of his ears. Crispin smiled into his bowl. A jealous Jack was an amusing one.
But none of it was amusing once they got outside. It might have been a clear day with only a wintry haze along the horizon, but it was starkly cold. His feet were already numb even under two layers of stockings.
“Tell me, Jack,” he said, climbing carefully down the stairs. “Had we any idea where to start this search?”
He still wore a hurt expression, one he seemed to hold dear from last night when Henry taunted him. “I’m not the Tracker, you are.”