It was this case. It was all too much. These Jews and child killings and strange Golems. It was a wonder he wasn’t driven mad!
And he had been too long without the warm arms of a woman. He hefted his coin purse and felt enough coins. Yes. He would go to the stews today. Now!
He fled to the river’s edge and searched along the wharves for the nearest ferry and ran toward it, tossing his farthing to the man in hopes of hurrying him.
Instead, the ferryman waited until his craft was full before he pushed it away from the wharf. A man with a horse on a lead stood off to the side, but the horse’s flank kept pushing into Crispin. Crispin didn’t mind. Its tangy warmth kept him from shivering as the beast blocked most of the wind.
He barely waited for the ferry to dock before he leapt away and hit the dock running, heading for the darker streets where the brothels huddled together like old whores.
He slowed as he wended his way down a narrow close. The light was dim, but Crispin could make out the shape of a woman facing a wall, leaning her hands on it, her gown hiked up to her thighs. A man stood behind her, rutting, and she cried out in little sighs and rocked with each thrust. Crispin did not turn to leave. Instead, he watched for a few moments, not in the least embarrassed. It took a few moments more for recognition to set in and his eyes rounded in horror. “John Rykener!”
The man jerked up his head. Hastily, he pulled up his braies and before he was fully covered, he fled into the dimness, his feet slapping harshly until he disappeared completely into the mist beyond.
The woman slumped against the wall and let her skirts fall back into place. “Dammit, Crispin!” She turned. Her face was round with a small chin and a petite mouth, a mouth that was twisted with ire. “You frightened him off before he could pay.”
“John,” breathed Crispin. The very last person he wanted to see. Today of all days.
“It’s Eleanor,” he said in his soft voice, “when I am garbed so. How many times have I told you?”
“For God’s sake, John. Must you continue to do”—Crispin waved an arm at him—“this?”
“You do what you do and I do what I do. It is simple finance.” John turned around and leaned with his back against the daub wall. He pulled his cloak about him. “That cost me my supper, I’ll have you know. Now you owe me.”
Crispin said nothing. He never liked the familiar manner Rykener insisted with him.
He felt the man’s eyes on him but refused to look. He couldn’t stand the notion of a man in women’s clothing. It was indecent. Ridiculous.
And it annoyed him still further that he didn’t know why he suddenly felt guilty that he had cost the man his supper money.
John fiddled with the looped braids hanging over his ears. “And what are you doing here, Crispin? As if I didn’t know. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you in Southwark. I know you hate it here.”
“Nothing,” muttered Crispin. “I’m doing nothing.” And it was true. This whole adventure was becoming God’s little jest. He had wanted the first whore he could find to prove his manhood. To prove to himself that a desperate kiss from some feminine youth could not unman him. As it had.
Naturally, the first whore he encountered would be that madman John Rykener, yet another sodomite. God’s jest indeed!
Hugging himself, he joined his companion by leaning against the damp wall beside him. The gray light angled down the alley against the opposing wall, smudging the already vague line between shadow and light. It smelled like a pissing alley and probably was. How often had he spent a halpen in such a place with a whore?
Crispin slanted a glance at the man in women’s clothing and shook his head. “They’ll arrest you again.”
He shrugged. “I know.”
“There are better ways to make a living,” said Crispin. “Believe me. I should know.”
“And yet none could be quite as satisfying.”
Crispin snorted.
“Do not snort at me, Crispin Guest,” he said, cocking his head in the very likeness of a woman. “We all have our roles to play. We all get by as best we can.”
“John . . .” He didn’t know what to say. He was in a strange enough mood as it was. To encounter John Rykener just now seemed to be more than Fate. He dropped his face in his hands and breathed through his fingers. Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder. He did not look up.
“Crispin,” cooed the man. He pushed away from the wall and drew closer. “What troubles you? I have never seen you like this.”
“I have never been like this,” he muttered between his fingers. Finally, he raised his head and leaned back until his head rested against the clammy plaster. John was wearing some sort of flowery scent that clashed with the alley’s acrid smells. “What makes a man . . .” He stared upward into the slice of gray sky caught between the buildings. “What makes a man . . . want another man, John?”
John studied Crispin silently for a time before he turned his gaze. He stared at the wall facing him a scant few feet away. “Would that I knew the answer to that.” He sighed and dragged himself forward, giving Crispin’s shoulder a friendly cuff. “Come along. I’m cold. And I have wine at home.” John beckoned but Crispin hesitated. “Come along. I don’t bite. That costs extra.”
“You are a pig,” spat Crispin.
“Very likely,” he agreed.
Reluctantly, Crispin followed him down the muddy lane, trying to keep his distance, afraid someone might think he had hired the man.
They turned down another tight alley and up a short flight of stairs to the narrow door of John’s lodgings.
Inside, the room was cold. The hearth had burned low and John rushed in to stoke it back to life. He dropped a bundle of sticks and a square of peat on top of the burgeoning flames and stood back, rubbing his thighs to warm them. “It was cold in that alley with my bum waving in the wind.”
Crispin sneered in his direction but joined him by the fire. “You said something about wine.” Anything to change the subject.
John smiled at him and curtsied. “Where are my manners?” He took a drinking jug from a shelf, removed the cloth covering, and offered it first to Crispin. Grateful, Crispin took it and drank. It filled his hollow belly. He knew he should be hungry. It had been a long time since he’d eaten. But he didn’t feel the least like having food right now. He drank a bit more before handing the jug to his companion.
John drank with a loud exhale and lowered the jug. “It was a harsh day, Crispin. And a long, cold night to come. Would that I could find a nice man to keep me warm at night.”
Crispin ignored the man’s leer. “Why must you be so disgusting? You know I hate that kind of talk.”
“And yet you befriended me anyway. One has to wonder why.”
“I just . . . did. God knows why.”
“So far, He hasn’t told me.”
“Would you add blasphemy to your many sins?”
“Why not? If I’m for Hell then I might as well make it a fast journey.” He pulled a stool over and sat, offering the other to Crispin. The room was small and spare, not unlike Crispin’s own, though it was considerably more dilapidated. The sky was clearly visible through a hole in the roof where a shaft of gentle snowflakes softly fell. Crispin edged his chair to the side to avoid the snowfall and scooted closer to the fire till his toes nearly burned.
He couldn’t help stealing glances at his companion. “Must you continue to wear that?”
John put a hand to his breast. “Would you prefer I remove it?”
“Er . . .”
With a smirk, John snapped to his feet and wriggled, loosening laces, until it slid down his slim form and pooled at his feet where he stepped out of it. He scratched luxuriously at himself over his shift. “Better?”