Crispin gestured to his braided hair and the man sighed elaborately. “For a man who is paying me nothing, you are certainly demanding.” He sat and began to unbraid his hair, pulling his fingers through the loosened strands until they fell in kinked waves to just below his jaw. When he was finished he posed with an inquiring brow.
Crispin drank from the jug again and nodded. “At least you look like a man again.”
“I am a man, you know.”
“Then why not look like one? Why do you insist on this?”
John paused, rubbing his hands for warmth. “I don’t whore all the time. Sometimes I work as an embroideress and so I must go on as Eleanor. But I have lain with women. Nuns mostly.”
Crispin spit his wine across his chest.
“Careful there, Master Guest.” He pounded on Crispin’s back. “That is all the wine I have.”
Crispin wiped uselessly at the front of his coat. “You are telling me tales again,” he choked out.
“No. Women of all sorts pay me. I do not discriminate. One hole is like another.”
“God’s blood!”
“Enough of this!” He settled on his stool again and plucked the drinking jug out of Crispin’s hand and took a swig. He wiped his mouth and settled his gaze on Crispin’s squirming form. “You asked me a very provocative question before. ‘What makes a man want another man?’ Wasn’t that it, Master Guest? And just why should you be so interested in my answer?”
There was nothing for it but to drop his heated face in his hands again. Crispin turned his head from side to side. He couldn’t forget Julian. It would take a very large dose of wine indeed for that to happen. “Just tell me!” he hissed through his fingers.
John slouched. He set the jug down between his legs and rested his long fingers on his knees. “I wish I knew,” he whispered. He cast a glance to the gown on the floor and a wash of uncertainty changed his expression for only a moment before it was lost again in the room’s shadows.
For the years Crispin had known him, John seemed to be a merry fellow. John had helped Crispin when he had first come to the Shambles, showed him how to stay alive on the streets, where the best almshouses could be found for food, prevented him from losing his way. He had never tried his wiles on Crispin except for his occasional seductive banter. Crispin felt slightly ashamed that he had done little to return John’s charity and instead offered the man scorn. It seemed ungrateful, but it was always difficult for Crispin to reconcile John’s kindness with his predilection for dressing as he did and laying with men.
But now John’s usual merry demeanor seemed swallowed by his thoughts.
Rykener settled on his stool and never looked at his friend as he spoke. “When I was a child,” he said softly, “I adored my mother’s things. Her gowns, her veils. I wanted so much to wear them. I knew such thoughts were wrong, but I would steal away from my chores to merely touch them. But it wasn’t until I was a lad of thirteen. I was working in Madam Elizabeth Bronderer’s stew as a scullion when she dressed me in women’s clothes for the first time. It was a scheme of hers, but . . .” A look of bliss passed over his face. “Ah Crispin, it was wonderful,” he said at last. “I was no longer a scullion after that.”
“A woman’s gown is one thing. But playing the mare—”
“I tried, Crispin,” he said wearily. “Truly, I tried. Madam Bronderer had me lay with women, too. But . . .” He shook his head. “A wife and children at my knee. What man does not want these things? And yet . . .” He rubbed his arms absently. “Have I not prayed enough, done enough penance? Even as a child I denied myself food and drink in recompense for my sinful thoughts. Even Madam Bronderer would admonish her ‘girls,’ as she called us, to pray. But there was never any joy with women. Only with men. Why should that be so? Alas. I continue to sin. And pray. I do not know which is the stronger.”
Crispin shrugged. “I know not either, John. We each have our burdens.”
“Yes, that is so.” He sniffed and clapped his thighs with his hands. “Well, did I answer your question, at least?”
The discomfort returned. “Erm . . . I suppose.”
John smiled. “I wish I could be more like you, Crispin. You’re very brave.”
In the face of it, Crispin was beginning to think that this wasn’t quite true.
“I have shared my tale with you. Now you must tell me why you ask, Crispin. Come now.”
“There were murders, John,” he said carefully. “Vile murders of boys. And they were . . . sodomized.”
John dragged his cloak from the floor and pulled it about him. “Oh.” He rose and leaned over the small hearth. His face, usually so pliable, seemed to harden before Crispin’s eyes. “And so you come to me. Do you accuse me, then? I am a man who indulges in the pleasure of other men so I must be a defiler of boys as well, is that it? Am I also a murderer?”
It was the furthest thing from his thoughts and yet his thoughts had been so jumbled he hadn’t quite known what he said. He had never seen Rykener so angry before. He slowly stood. “I am not accusing you, John. That was not my intention. Forgive me if I have offended you.”
John knotted the cloak at his throat with a fist. “It is a vile thing to call me, Crispin. I thought better of you. And here I have shared what little wine I have. Perhaps . . . perhaps you should leave now.”
What was there to say? Crispin moved uncertainly.
John sighed and tapped a foot, trying unsuccessfully to avoid catching Crispin’s gaze. Finally he rolled his eyes and waved at the room. “Don’t be absurd.” He blinked at him to show his hurt and Crispin did feel genuine remorse.
At last, John sat again and adjusted his cloak and shift over his legs, rubbing them for warmth. Crispin returned to his stool. “I don’t lie with boys,” said John harshly. “I lie with men. Especially priests. They’re more profitable.”
“John! God’s blood! Will you be serious!” But at least he seemed to have forgiven him.
“I am serious!” he said, his demeanor changing again to the merry soul Crispin remembered. “For it was they who told me what a grave sinner I was . . . before they dropped to their knees before me. The hypocrites.”
Crispin cringed. The man loved to taunt him with such tales. Could any of them be true? He conceded that they could be.
“But despite your misstep,” John went on, “I can see you are greatly troubled. So I shall try to speak plainly to you.” He cleared his throat and took on the look of some of the preachers Crispin had seen near pilgrim sites. “Though there are some men who seek out boys, I do not truck with them. They are . . . vile. Twisted.” Crispin gave him a look and John wagged a finger at him. “I know what goes on behind your eyes, Crispin Guest. But I am not vile or twisted. I am a gentle soul, as you well know. I do not seek to hurt. My weakness is for grown men, not boys. This damns me as it is. Have I not been threatened with terrible tortures by the sheriff? I am condemned enough when caught in women’s clothes. The fines! Last time I spent a month in Newgate.” Crispin refrained from telling him “I told you so.” “But that is no matter. The truth of it is, I have no interest in children. None of my fellow whores do. Perhaps you do not see the difference, but I do. If I were of the sort who violated children, then I should be obliged to hurl myself from the highest tower.”
Crispin grunted in reply. Perhaps there was a difference. Perhaps not. Such things were difficult to fathom. Especially in the face of his own strange situation.
“I have been told there are secret stews of boys,” Crispin went on, staring into the fire.