John of Gaunt glared down at him with dark brows and a dark beard. Being the king’s uncle, his apartments were close to Richard and his queen, Anne.
“Your grace,” said Crispin, bowing with as much dignity as he could muster. Jack sloppily parroted his master. “How did you know I was here?”
“I heard the commotion in the corridor and I lay in wait for you. How could you be such a fool as to come here?”
He cast his eyes to the floor, feeling like a child chastised by his sire. “A paying wage, my lord. I must go where the business takes me,” he muttered.
“And it takes you to that Jew physician? What are you doing, Crispin?”
He looked up at the man who had nurtured him, saved him, and ultimately betrayed him. He knew not how to feel anymore. Instead, he let his eyes grow cold and leveled his gaze with that of the duke’s. “I am earning my keep, my lord,” he said with more passion. “May I go now?”
“No, you may not go!” Lancaster crossed to the enormous hearth and paced, his hands holding so tight to one another behind his back that they whitened. “Stubborn. Willful. Obstinate.”
“All my patron names,” said Crispin.
Lancaster flicked his head and glared at him. “Do not dare be flippant with me, Guest.”
Crispin sighed. How was he ever to get out of the palace? Worse. How was he ever to get back in? Perhaps . . .
“My lord, I urgently seek your counsel.”
“Ha!” He stood with legs wide in front of the fire. His red houppelande was fringed by golden firelight and his face fell into shadow.
Crispin took a cautious step forward. Lancaster could easily strike him for his insolence as much as help him. He wondered which was more likely. “My lord, there have been . . . unseemly murders. I have been sent to investigate them.”
Lancaster’s eyes glittered and steadied on Crispin. “Murders? Which sheriff sent you? That ineffectual John Froshe? Or that fish-faced Nicholas Exton?”
He hesitated. After all, he wasn’t supposed to say.
“Never mind,” said Lancaster. “I can see you are loyal to one of those fools. More misplaced loyalty, Guest?”
That stung. Why use Crispin’s loyalty against him? “All of London knows I am trustworthy.” It was no mere boast and Lancaster knew it.
The duke said nothing to that. He glared at him for a moment longer before slowly pivoting toward the fire. “You were told not to return to court,” he said quietly. “How much is this physician paying you? Is it worth your life?”
“It is not merely the money.” If you knew me better you would know that, he longed to say. “The murders,” he said aloud. “I could not let it lie—”
“You could never let it lie.” He shook his head. Crispin stared at that straight spine, the sword-roughened hands behind his back.
The room was too familiar. Crispin refused to take comfort in it. He shoved the memories back, memories of sitting before this very hearth with Lancaster, while the duke’s children careened through that archway.
“Not when murder is concerned, my lord.”
“So you say. Well, Crispin. What boon do you require this time?”
A hard stone settled in his belly. He gritted his teeth. “I must investigate this murder. I need to inquire at court.”
“Godspeed to that. You well remember that the king specifically forbade this very thing.” His eyes roved up and down Crispin’s form. “And I see how well you obey. For coin, Crispin? Oh, very well. Because of murder, then. Yet you are still here and still forbidden. Is it your deepest desire to earn the king’s wrath? Don’t answer that. I would rather not fall prey to more of your impudence.”
Crispin rolled his shoulder. His arm began to throb where that cur Julian stabbed him. Maybe he should have allowed the Jew to put on his wretched poultice.
Lancaster sighed and shook his head. Raising a hand to his temple he lowered himself to one of the chairs before the fire. “Crispin, Crispin.” Gaunt’s back was to him and it was only that dark head of hair over the top of the chair’s back that Crispin could see. “How did we get here, you and I?” he asked softly.
He grasped his wounded arm and cradled it. “Because you are right,” he replied, just as quietly. “I could not let it lie.”
Lancaster raised his hand and motioned him to the other chair.
He hesitated. Would Lancaster help him after all, or was there more lecture to be endured?
In the end it didn’t matter. Crispin wanted to sit beside him, wanted to soak up all the time he could with his former mentor. But he was not so much of a fool to let his guard down. Warily, he made his way to the other chair and gently sat. He stared at the man’s profile for a long time. The hearth glow wove a pattern of dark and light over his pallid cheek, tipping the mustache with gold.
“Have your servant serve us wine, Crispin. It’s chilly.”
He turned to where Jack cowered in the corner and the boy suddenly stood to attention, looking for the flagon. He found it on the sideboard and filled two cups, serving Lancaster with a trembling hand. Crispin took the other from Jack and drank a bit of it before setting it aside. He had already had too much in the physician’s chamber. He needed a clear head with Lancaster.
He watched the older man drink as he slowly sipped the fragrant liquor. Dammit, but he missed living at court! He missed the intrigues, the news, the day-to-day minutiae intimated to him in shadowed corners and even darker bedchambers.
He missed . . . this.
Crispin cleared his throat and asked the question he’d been trying to forget. “Yesterday . . . I heard that the king granted my . . . my lands to Giles de Risley.”
Lancaster’s face did not change. He blinked slowly. “That is true.”
“Why?” He knew his voice sounded petulant but he could not restrain himself. “Why give it to him?”
“To punish you for refusing his benevolence,” he said. “All of court knows that you and de Risley were rivals of a sort. Richard thought this meant that you were enemies. His hate of you is deep. I can only guess that he knew you would somehow discover it. You should be pleased that it is at least in the hands of a friend.”
Crispin slumped, eyes distantly watching the flames. “But after so long. My home,” he murmured.
“Come now, Crispin. It has not been your home for some time. No use weeping over the past. You are the last man I expected of that. You had your chance when the king offered to give you back your name and your lands. Why did you refuse?”
He wouldn’t look at Lancaster. “You know why.”
The man huffed a sound and sat back in his chair. “Yes, I know.”
They sat in silence for a time until Crispin sighed. “I need a way to get into the palace.”
“Don’t you rather need a way to get out of it?”
“God’s blood!” he swore softly. “That, too. But my lord. I will need to return. I . . . I am loath to ask for your help—”
“No you’re not. You’re no fool, after all. Much evidence to the contrary.”
Silence again.
Lancaster sighed. “By the saints, Crispin. How you put me in these situations I’ll never—”
A knock on the door made them both swivel their heads.
“Uncle John?” came the all too familiar voice that stilled Crispin’s heart.
“The king!” hissed Lancaster.
Crispin shot to his feet. Lancaster motioned to an alcove where an arras hung on an iron rod before it. Crispin rushed behind the tapestry just as the door opened. He tried to make himself as small as he could. God only knew where Jack was.
“Uncle John?” said Richard, coming into the room. “I heard you talking.” He stopped.