Crispin glanced at Jack to see if he had caught on, but apparently he didn’t. Crispin licked dry lips. Should he tell her? Could he dash her hopes and bring the roof down upon her? On any parent?
“Master?” Jack was at his elbow, touching his sleeve. His voice was soft. “Master, what is amiss? You are pale.”
“Nothing,” he said hastily. He raised his head and nodded to the woman, saying slowly, “Life as a page is difficult. He will have much to learn but it will be rewarding. He . . . he will have little time to communicate with you. There is the possibility that you will see him no more. . . .”
She nodded and wiped at her eye. “Aye. But it’s a small price to pay for a better life, I say.”
Crispin gritted his teeth and couldn’t help but offer a bow. “I thank you for your time.” He thought of offering her a coin and wondered if it might seem more like blood money. In the end, he could not leave her without offering something. He dug out two farthings and handed one each to both potters. “For your time,” he said lamely and staggered out of the hovel. He walked quickly over the clay-slick lane. Jack ran raggedly behind to catch up.
The boy seemed to sense his mood and said nothing until they were well away and on the Bank, hurrying back to where they could catch the ferry across. When they reached the wharf they had just missed it and had to wait for its return.
“Master,” said Jack soberly. “You know something, don’t you?”
“Yes, Jack.” With a sigh, he leaned against the damp pier jutting up from the wharf. “Did you not hear what she said? She gave her boy away, thinking it was for the good of him.”
It took only a moment. “Oh! Oh my God!” Jack began to tremble and Crispin almost wrapped an arm around him. Jack was not an infant. He was nearly a man, having lived as a man for some years. He could deal with this knowledge as a man.
“You don’t think—” Jack struggled with the notion. “Why did you not tell her, sir?”
The sick feeling would not leave him. “What would be the use in it? Her child was gone. Dead. Worse than merely dead. It could not help her to know the truth. It might even destroy her.”
“ ’Slud! That’s a sore, sore thing.” He chewed on his fingers and stared out onto the gray water. Perhaps Jack was thinking the same thing as him: that had Jack consorted with the wrong man instead of Crispin, then he, too, might have been found floating in the Thames.
“Do you know who did it?” he said after a long pause. His voice was roughened by anger.
“Yes. It is Julian.” The satisfaction that he had not been wrong settled in his chest.
“Aye.” There was recognition in the one word. “That was his description right enough. What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to haul him to Newgate before I do something.”
Jack made an affirming sound. They said nothing more as they waited for the ferryman slowly making his way across the choppy river.
Crispin did not allow Jack to accompany him. He didn’t want Jack anywhere near Julian. It was nearly Sext when he reached the gates of Westminster. He still wore his livery from Lancaster over his cotehardie but his hood was drawn low over his face, as always. A light dusting of snow helped to disguise him. He joined a group of pages filing in through the great hall like a pack of sheep.
Westminster Hall was nearly as grand as a cathedral. It was as wide as a row of infantry lined up shoulder to shoulder. The roof reached upwards on columns into a ceiling of wooden beams and trusses. A remarkable space, to be sure, and one that Crispin had enjoyed at many a feast when he was still in the good graces of the old king, Edward of Windsor.
Crispin kept his head down, well acquainted with the high ceilings and hanging banners and shields. He recalled all too well the last time he had been in this hall facing King Richard. It was an event he did not willingly wish to repeat.
He’d gotten halfway across the hall when he heard Giles’s voice hailing Lancaster. The hall was crowded with those begging audiences, clerks, servants, pages, and lords. One more liveried servant would be beneath Giles’s notice, and, Crispin hoped, Lancaster’s.
The duke turned a narrowed-eyed gaze toward Giles. “De Risley.”
Giles was with that thin, wheat-haired man, and the stockier dark fellow, Radulfus, who had taunted Crispin in the courtyard.
“Your grace,” said Giles with a deep bow. His compatriots followed suit. “I wondered. Had you had an opportunity to look into the monies the king promised to me from my uncle’s estate?”
Crispin could only see the back of him, but he recognized well the stiffening in Lancaster’s shoulders and the growl undertone to his voice. “I was not aware, my lord, that I was your personal banker.”
“No indeed, your grace,” he said. “It is just that you have the ear of the king, and since these funds were promised to me—”
“You throw the term lightly, my lord. ‘Promised?’ I know of no such promise from his Majesty. Your relations had the greater right to your uncle’s funds and lands. I think, rather, that you should take it up with them.”
“But your grace! That is impossible, as you surely know! They have turned their backs on me, foreswearing their oaths as kinsmen—”
Lancaster yawned. “That is troubling news. Then I am at a loss, de Risley.”
“But your grace—” Giles reached for Lancaster’s arm. The scowl the duke delivered was monumental. Giles slowly unwound his fingers from Lancaster’s sleeve.
The duke said nothing more, did not even grace de Risley with a look, before he swept away.
Giles grimaced after him. His fellows crowded closer and spat an oath. He talked in bitter whispers to his companions. “And so you see my dilemma.”
“The bastard,” said Radulfus, sneering after Lancaster. Crispin felt an unnatural rage, but held himself back from knocking the man’s head with his dagger hilt. “So our little games continue.”
“As entertaining as they are,” said Giles, worriedly, “they are not working!”
“I have told you, my lord,” said the birdlike, fair-haired man. “These things take time.”
“I spent everything I had on the Guest Manor,” he growled. Crispin stiffened. He could not help taking a step closer. “And some money I took that was not my own,” he said, voice lowered. “It was supposed to be temporary. I was supposed to be able to pay it back without notice. You promised me—”
“I told you, my lord, that the planets were not yet aligned. We should have waited until the next new moon—”
“You and your star charts!” Giles looked around and Crispin turned swiftly, feigning a search across the crowded hall. Giles clutched the man’s arm. Crispin surmised this small fellow to be his astrologer. The man always did have a soft spot for such foolery. But what was this about borrowing money? Had Giles paupered himself buying Crispin’s lands? It warmed Crispin’s heart that Giles somehow wished to preserve his estate from other snatching hands. But Giles should not have overextended himself.
He took a quick glance at the cousin, Radulfus, who was adjusting the long liripipe of his scarlet hat. Perhaps he had put Giles up to it. Giles always was gullible about certain things, especially about money. More often than not he took up with the wrong sort, making the wrong choices.
Carefully, Crispin backed up until he could hear them again. “I must do this thing. We must be able to call upon our lord. Only He can help me. Our funds are dwindling.”
So Giles had a patron? That would explain where he got the extra money for the lands. But had he borrowed a little too much? Apparently, Giles had wagered on this uncle’s funds that had not been bequeathed to him. Foolish. What was Radulfus urging Giles to do?