The columns were surrounded by scaffolding. It seemed every great cathedral in England was being reworked and made anew, a caterpillar sloughing off last year’s skin in hopes of emerging as a butterfly. Crispin supposed the money was well spent, but there seemed to him to be the same number of beggars at the almsdoor. Funny how he never gave it much thought before, when he was donating his coin purse for a chapel to be built at Sheen. A chapel in which others, Giles de Risley among them, now prayed.
The columns and pillars of stone shot up into the dim, vaulted ceiling. Taller than any forest, it was a feat to be admired. The mason’s art was more than craft. It was too bad Crispin had not been apprenticed so. I’d never be out of work if I had been.
His eyes scanned again down the nave and peered past the pillars into the wooden choir with its own carved spires. There he saw a monk lighting candles, and headed toward him.
“Good Brother,” he said, delaying the monk as he raised his silver candle lighter. The monk turned to him. He was young, perhaps little more than a boy. His hood was drawn low over his brow. Brown eyes glittered with surprise that he should be addressed. He said nothing, but waited for Crispin to speak.
“I need to see Abbot Nicholas. Could you take me to him?”
The monk’s eyes widened. Crispin expected it. He interrupted what would surely have been a sputtered excuse. “My Lord Abbot and I are old friends. He will see me. I will tarry here if it please you. Tell him Crispin Guest awaits.”
The monk could not seem to argue with this. He closed his mouth and blew out the wick at the end of his lighter. Scurrying down the aisle toward the south transept, he looked back once. Crispin followed, knowing that the young cleric would return this way. He strolled to the door at the crotch of the south transept. Three large quatrefoils within circles of stone reared above the arched entrance, upheld by lancet arches. The door would be barred. He would wait. He had no doubt the youth, or another monk, would be back.
It didn’t take long for a familiar face to unlock the door and approach. Brother Eric smiled from under his cowl. “Master Crispin,” he said. “Benedicte.”
“Thanks be to God,” Crispin replied and took his hand in welcome, hiding a wince when his wounded arm flexed. “May I speak a few words with the abbot?”
Brother Eric nodded and gestured for Crispin to follow. They entered the cloister and ambled down the colonnade, walking side by side. Their steps echoed back to them and bounced from carrel to empty carrel. The cloister garden was a tangle of dead sticks and twisted, brown vines. All lay dormant now that winter was upon them, though the stillness faltered under the flitting of bramblings that rustled the branches and pecked at the wattle fences, their orange breasts lending a bit of color to the lifeless undergrowth.
The way was familiar to Crispin and, shoulder to shoulder, they trotted up the chilled steps to the abbot’s quarters.
Brother Eric drew ahead of Crispin and knocked lightly on the abbot’s door. A soft reply later, and the monk opened the heavy oak, allowing Crispin in before he shut it after him, leaving them alone.
“Crispin!” The old abbot’s face lit and he made a move to skirt his worktable, but Crispin motioned for him to remain. Instead, he met the man with the table between them and extended his hand. “My Lord Abbot.”
“It is good to see you, friend Crispin. Shall we have wine?”
Eagerly, he retreated to the sideboard where he knew Abbot Nicholas kept French wine in a flagon. He poured two goblets of the golden liquid and returned, offering one to the abbot before they both sat. Putting the metal goblet to his lips, Crispin closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet fruit before his mouth tasted. When he opened his eyes again, the abbot was smiling at him. “Good, eh? I just received this shipment from Spain. I favor the sweetness of this variety.”
“Quite good,” said Crispin, savoring the flavors exploding on his tongue.
They sipped at their goblets for a few moments before Abbot Nicholas sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have not seen you in some time, Crispin. Our chess game awaits.”
The tall windows showered a rainbow of light onto the chessboard, illuminating chess pieces that they had left a month before. Slowly, Crispin sat in his chair on the black side and Nicholas seated himself opposite. The abbot took a short quaff of his wine, set it aside on a table, and rubbed his hands. “I believe it is your turn.”
Crispin smiled. “This game will be over in nine moves.”
Nicholas chortled. “Indeed? Pride, Master Guest, is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.”
“It is not pride, my Lord Abbot, but the truth. ‘Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is Truth.’ ”
The abbot’s eyes sparkled. “Your Aristotle seems more dear to you. It is not wise to put your faith in one voice, and a pagan one at that, Crispin. ‘Beware the man of one book.’ So says Saint Thomas Aquinas.”
Crispin gave him a sidelong look before reaching over the pieces to move his knight.
“Always you move the knight,” muttered Nicholas, his watery eyes scanning the players.
“The knight is an enterprising fellow.”
Nicholas quirked an eyebrow before returning his gaze to the board. “No doubt.” He dithered his hand over several pieces before deciding on his bishop. “But I fear you did not come here to simply play a game of chess with me, much as it would cheer me to think it.”
Crispin could not help the frown that shifted his mouth. “No, Nicholas. Would that I had the leisure.” He moved his knight again, keeping his eyes downcast. He felt the man staring at him.
“What then, I wonder?” Both hands clutched at the board’s edge until he started to tap each finger randomly. “I wonder what you are up to?” The idle conversation seemed to be more about the board game than Crispin’s presence. He smiled when the old abbot finally moved a piece.
Crispin took his knight and slid it into place. “Grave matters, Nicholas.” He leaned forward and said quietly, “Have you heard of the murdered boy found in the Thames a few days ago?”
Nicholas crossed himself. “It grieves me to hear of it. But it does my heart good to know that you are investigating. You are, are you not?”
“I am. But there are . . . other considerations. I came for information about matters I know little of.”
“God grant that I can give you the right and proper information you need,” he said before moving a pawn.
Crispin stared at it and gauged the board again. “Just so. What can you tell me about Jews and Jewish religious customs?”
Nicholas drew back as if burned. “Jews? What tidings are these? Do you think Jews are to blame? But there are none left on these shores.”
“That may be true, but I have reason to believe the murder might involve these people nonetheless.”
Nicholas took a deep breath, but his otherwise pale skin blushed in agitation. “All of the Jews did not leave with King Edward’s exile, you know. Many took up Christ in the waters of baptism and were allowed to remain. They live in the House of Converts. At least, the newer converts do.”
“And where do they come from?”
“The occasional traveler and merchant. Those who stay must convert.” Nicholas frowned. “There have been rumors,” said Nicholas almost to himself. “Well, what does it matter? It was so long ago. Even so, there are those within the Church who—” His brows rose and he appeared to remember Crispin’s presence. He resettled himself and offered a brief smile. “There are even things I am not at liberty to discuss with you, no matter how you use your wiles on me.”
“Wiles, Nicholas? Have I used my wiles on you?”