Within the passage they encountered many liveried pages, and Crispin decided to try them first.
“You there!” he called, stopping a blond boy wearing the arms of some minor noble.
The boy paused and looked Crispin up and down. “Aye?”
“Can you point out the servants who serve the Jew’s quarters?”
The boy’s eyes scoured Crispin and Jack a second time. “And why would you be wanting to know that?”
Crispin straightened, showing off the colors across his chest. “My lord wishes to know. Why else?”
The boy seemed little impressed. He shrugged and looked around. When he lifted his arm, his finger pointed out a man of middle years with a round face, squat brown hair streaked with gray, and hard black eyes. “That is Bill Wodecock. He would know.” Having discharged this information, the page slipped into the shadows. It didn’t matter. Crispin was now focused on the man. He wore the king’s livery and Crispin suspected he might have sway over some of the other servants.
“Master Wodecock! I would speak with you.”
The man in question turned. The cogwheels of his mind seemed to be turning, trying to come up with a name to the face he seemed to recognize. If he were in the employ of the king some seven years ago, he might well remember Crispin. That meant Crispin had to work fast. “I would speak with you regarding a matter of some import. Is there a place to talk?”
“I cannot tarry now,” said the man, continuing to walk at a quickened pace. “If you would ask a question of me, you had best do it on the run.”
“Very well,” said Crispin, matching his pace to the older man with Jack bringing up the rear. “I seek the servants to the Jew physician.”
“Why?”
“I must ask them questions.”
The man’s gaze flicked once to the tabard and the duke of Lancaster’s arms. “I ask again. Why?”
“It is not for me to know. It is for my master’s sake.”
They reached a corridor that was empty but for themselves and a guard stationed at the other end, far from them. Wodecock stopped at last and gave Crispin a hard look. “I know you are lying. You are Crispin Guest. Give me one good reason why I should not hail yon guard.”
Crispin sighed. Jack edged behind him that much more. “I suspected you knew me. And I also suspect you know something of why I am here.”
“I don’t pretend to know anything. It is unwise for a servant to presume.” He looked back at the guard and scratched his broad chin. “I know what you do now, Master Crispin. I have ears, haven’t I? But there are some here who won’t talk to you no matter what you are investigating. It is too dangerous.”
“Then I need to talk to those who do not fear it.”
The man gave him a wary smile. “I see the king hasn’t killed the pride in you. God help you.”
He turned to go but Crispin grabbed his arm. “This is no mere whim, sir. I need your help to prevent more mayhem.”
He shook off Crispin’s grasp. “I am not your servant, Master. No matter who you once were. And I care little for what you think you are doing here. Be grateful I have not cried out for that guard.”
“I beseech you. I am here to save lives. Whatever you may think of me and my character has nothing to do with my mission now.”
Wodecock sighed loudly and tapped his foot. “By my Lady,” he grumbled. “You are just as imprudent as ever, Master Guest.” He shook his head, his flattened hair moving not at all. “Very well. I do not do it for you. I do it for my wife’s nephew whom you saved from the gallows nigh on two years past. Not that he hasn’t deserved the gallows since.” His next words slid from him reluctantly. “Go to the Jew’s corridor as close as you may. I will send someone anon who might be willing to talk with you. More I cannot promise.”
Crispin offered the man a brief bow. “I thank you, Master Wodecock.”
“Hmpf” was his reply, before he whirled on his heel and hurried on his way.
Crispin caught Jack’s eye. “Let us hasten to the queen’s chamber.”
“I don’t like this, sir,” said Jack, following. He was as skittish as a cat in a kennel. “It don’t matter what livery we wear. Going back to that corridor is cod-pated. The king could appear.”
“He could appear anywhere, Jack. This is his palace.”
They wended their way carefully through the corridors and found a guard at the archway to the corridor where the queen’s chamber lay. It was also the corridor to the duke of Lancaster’s apartments and Crispin took courage from their livery that they would not be stopped. With head down, he approached the guard with Jack at his side and released his held breath when they passed him unmolested.
Would lingering in the corridor arouse suspicion? He realized he knew little of the life of the servants who waited on him since birth. Though he served as a page for Lancaster, his life was far different from the likes of Wodecock and lesser servants who stoked fires and changed linens. Many slept in their masters’ chambers in cramped alcoves.
As they waited, a master of wardrobe exited the queen’s chamber, urging two female servants forward, their arms full of linens. Crispin turned his face away but he felt the man’s questioning eyes on him. The footsteps receded and the corridor fell to silence again.
“How long can we tarry and not bring forth that guard?” whispered Jack into Crispin’s sleeve.
Crispin turned his head slightly and eyed the guard . . . who was eyeing him back. “Not long, I fear. I pray that servant arrives soon.”
Crispin was barely done speaking when a man in a quilted dark blue tunic carrying a bundle of fuel pushed past the guard. His head was covered in a leather cap with ear flaps whose ties swung freely as he lumbered. He was built more robustly than Crispin but of the same height. His eyes snapped up and captured Crispin’s gaze, keeping it as he approached. His shuffling step was hurried and he did not pause as he whisked by them. But a rasped “Follow!” hissed from the side of his mouth and Crispin and Jack joined him as he opened the door to the Jew’s quarters with a rusty key.
The shadows swallowed them and the man turned swiftly, his back to the doorway. “Master Wodecock bid me speak to you,” said the man in a roughened voice. He looked older upon closer inspection, perhaps ten years Crispin’s senior. His eyes looked out from darkened hollows. The skin on his spotted face was stretched taut with an unhealthy pallor.
“I will mince no words with you then,” said Crispin, eyeing what he could see of the corridor through the opened door. “The Jew physician claims that he is the victim of thievery. Parchments were stolen from him.”
The man’s eyes widened a fraction but he said nothing.
“Might you know of such a theft?” Crispin pressed.
The man licked his lips. His pale blue eyes flicked over Crispin’s livery. “A theft?”
Crispin measured his expression carefully. Something was dancing behind those troubled eyes. “Yes,” said Crispin. “Or perhaps . . . not so much a theft. But if, say, a nobleman requested such a thing. Perhaps even paid a servant to open the door for him . . .”
The servant’s eyes shifted toward the floor. He licked his lips again.
Aha.
Crispin dropped his own gaze from the man and absently stroked the blazon on his tabard. “It is such a little thing, in the end, isn’t it? Open a door for a lord. Is this not the house of the king? Are these lords not the king’s minions? And what is this Jew but a servant of the king?”
The man’s jaw muscles tightened on his stubbled jowl.
Crispin fingered his money pouch. “I might have a halpen for a man who would share this information. Money well-earned, I may add. And with my being as discreet as a priest, no one would know that such a man told me aught.”