“Perhaps,” said the duke, eyes toward the fire, “I shall send livery to you. Do you still reside . . . where you did before?”
Crispin snorted. The man could not even bring himself to say “the Shambles.” “Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Then we shall send it to you there. Handle it with care, Guest. You see how close the king is.”
“Indeed.”
“Then go. Take your boy and begone.” Crispin bowed and Jack followed suit, still trembling and sniffling. He reached the door when the duke called out to him. “Crispin,” he said. The hearth flared behind him, throwing his shadow across the floor toward the door as if it were fleeing. His voice met Crispin at the doorposts. “Be careful.”
He looked at Lancaster, thinking for not the first time that this might be the last instance he set eyes upon him. He bowed again. “Always, my lord.”
He opened the door a crack and looked out, wishing that the cressets were extinguished. Darkness would have helped. He pushed his hood up, pulled Jack’s up over his head, and yanked the dazed boy with him into the corridor.
He kept his head down, his cloak tight around him, and nearly dragged Jack through the long corridors. A guard stood at one archway but there was no one by the door of St. Stephen’s chapel. Since the way to the Great Hall was effectively blocked, he decided that the better part would be to go through the chapel and out the cloister.
They slipped in. The chapel was dark and only the merest moonlight shined on the tall, narrow bands of stained-glass windows in the apse. Stealing across the checkered floor, Crispin stumbled into the frozen form of Jack, stalled in the center of the nave.
When he looked down, he saw the boy’s eyes slowly rise up the tall columns to the vaulted ceiling with its painted stars, the rows of shields on either side, the jeweled stained glass giving color to the dark gray of the chapel. His shiny lips hung open, jaw slack as his gaze rose and rose. Though at any other instance Crispin might be pleased to give Jack a tour, now was definitely not the time.
He pushed at his shoulder. “Come along,” he whispered, just enough to urge the boy’s feet and set him to moving again.
They escaped into a passage between the cloister and the chapel that led to an outer door and they crept into the shadows of the gardens along the banks of the Thames until they reached a wall and climbed it to the outer courtyard. They walked brusquely to the main gate and down the lane toward Charing Cross. No one stopped them. No one questioned them. No one raised the alarm.
He remembered to breathe once they passed the Cross and he stood in the snow momentarily to regain his bearings. It was late. The curfew was now in force and the gates of London were surely locked tight for the night. But this did not trouble him. He knew ways around that.
“Do we have to return to the palace, Master?”
He looked down at the boy. His voice was a pitiful murmur of sniffling and whimpering. “Yes, Jack. At least I do. If it frightens you too much, I will not demand it.”
The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve several times and peered up sorrowfully. His lashes glistened in the pale moonlight. “You can’t go alone.”
“I have been alone a long time, Jack. Never fear.”
“But . . . what if you’re caught? I’d never find out until it was far too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“For me to rescue you!”
A warm sensation bubbling in his chest surprised him, and he smiled at Jack’s sincerity. “That may be so,” he said gently. “Then perhaps, if you will, you should come along to keep watch over me.”
Jack sighed heavily with the exasperation of the put upon. “I think I’d better, then. I’d never forgive m’self if something happened to you, sir.”
Crispin clutched the boy’s shoulder affectionately before dropping it away. He filled his lungs with cold air.
The curtain of clouds above had opened, revealing a painfully clear night of tight stars and black sky, reminding him a little of St. Stephen’s vaulted ceiling. The recent snow dampened the sounds, if sounds there were, for most of Westminster had gone to their beds. The Thames lapped the stony banks, and boats rose and fell with creaks and groans, but all was still.
They began their long walk home back down the Strand.
After a time, Jack raised his head. Beneath his hood, his cloud of breath lifted into the night. “Master, why does France have Jews and England does not?”
“A fair question, Jack. How am I to answer it simply? Our King Edward I exiled them from England.”
“Why?”
“Because of usury and other despicable acts.”
“Oh.” Silence for a time, until . . . “What’s usury?”
“Money lending at interest.”
“What’s int—?”
“Paying a fee for taking a loan.”
“Why would—?”
“Jack, just understand that it caused a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh.” A pause. “But that physician seems like a kind man.” His brows furrowed at that, as if not quite believing his own words. “Though I ain’t saying the same for his dog of a son.” His face was more at ease at this justified sentiment. “Yet the father seems fair enough. Maybe it ain’t all Jews what caused the trouble.”
Crispin said nothing. How to explain to the boy that men deceive, even the ones who seem benign? And yet . . . He relied on his gut instincts to carry him through many a difficult situation. And his gut told him that Jacob was the man he seemed to be. Jack’s innocent assertion was more pointed than the boy could have imagined. Crispin had dealt with Jews before in the Holy Land. Suspicious merchants and obsequious money lenders. He had naturally seen them in France in Avignon, as there they were free to do what they liked. He had assumed they were all as he imagined, all he had been taught.
He didn’t like the direction his thoughts were taking. He preferred, instead, to cast his thoughts on the murderous Julian, for it was easier to find evil in that narrow-eyed youth. He was more like the Jew he pictured in his mind’s eye. That lad was the one Crispin could not trust. His wounded arm throbbed with the thinking of it.
The quiet settled around them as they trudged back to London. The soft sounds of ice crunched beneath their boots. They passed Temple Bar and headed up Fleet Street before they could make the turn northward. They’d have to enter London by Newgate, and though Crispin hated to do it, he knew it was the only—
Wait. What was that?
He halted and reached out to grasp Jack’s cloak and pulled him to a stop.
Jack didn’t speak, only looked up from his shadowing hood, puzzled. Crispin held up a hand for him to listen. They both did, cocking their heads.
A steady thud coming their way. Hard, heavy footfalls. The Watch? Perhaps a man carrying a heavy burden. That would certainly have slowed his steps. Or it could be someone injured . . .
The chill at the familiar sound rumbled up his core. It sounded like . . .
Out of the shadows emerged a large figure. Jack gasped and Crispin froze, staring. The figure stopped where it was, standing between two close buildings. A narrow band of moonlight limned one edge of the hulking man but not enough to reveal his face. He had unnaturally wide shoulders and a seemingly small head.
They stood staring at one another for several heartbeats, little more than a stone’s throw apart.
All at once, the man turned and slipped quickly back into the shadows.
It seemed to break the spell and Crispin took off at a run. But when he got to the spot the man had stood, there was no sign of him at all.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The lonely sound only enhanced the isolated feeling of the empty street.
Jack was behind Crispin clutching his cloak. “Where’d he go?” His voice was breathless.