“Vile panderers,” said John, swiping his hand absently across his knee. “I have heard of them. To use these boys . . .” He shook his head and seemed to be genuinely appalled. It relieved Crispin. He had always liked Rykener. Though he did not approve of his doings or his choice of laymen, he had seen beyond the women’s clothes to the man beneath. Rykener’s petite features did not belong on a man, nor did those slanted and all-knowing eyes. But he wasn’t a bad sort, even with his insistence at being called Eleanor.
They both fell silent. After a time John ticked his head and turned to face Crispin. “You mentioned murder.”
“Yes. Horrific. Four boys in the same way.”
“Why murdered?”
He shook his head. “I do not know. To hide their crimes against these children perhaps. But there is more. I—” He recalled that John was not a man to enjoy blood. “I am reluctant to share the details with you. It is not . . . pleasant.”
The man wrinkled his nose. “Then don’t. I’d rather not know.” He offered Crispin the jug again and he took it. “But if there is more of a violent nature involved”—he tilted his head to verify it and Crispin confirmed with a gesture—“then it seems that perhaps this is less about the sodomizing of boys and more about murder. Perhaps if you reason the why you can reckon the who.”
“Yes. Very astute of you, Master Rykener. I thought I knew the who and then . . .” He felt his face heat again and he took another swallow of wine to hide it. But John was more astute than he would have liked. The man’s gaze stuck to him steadfast.
“The who was not the murderer?”
“No. Well, at least I do not think so. I mean—dammit.” He clamped his mouth shut before he condemned himself further.
John shook his head with a chuckle. “Crispin, I have never seen you this discomfited. Verily, you are the most unflappable man I know. And yet something seems to have, well, flapped you. These murders are horrible, yes. But I do not think it is that.”
“Leave it alone, John.”
“Oh now! You know that is an impossibility.” He scooted his stool closer to Crispin until their knees nearly touched. “Now then, Master Guest. You will tell me what has happened to bring such a faint glow to your cheek. Come now. Out with it!”
“No, I—” He reached for the jug but John snatched it from his hand.
“No more, Master Guest. Tell me and I shall see if you are deserving.”
Crispin used his harshest glare but it did no good against the gleeful expression of his companion, all former rancor forgotten.
Very well. Get it over with. Like scratching off a scab.
He positioned himself to fully face Rykener and dug his fist in his thighs. “A young man kissed me. And I liked it.”
The jug crashed to the floor. It took several moments for the gape-mouthed John to realize he had dropped it and he jumped to his feet to retrieve the shards.
Crispin morosely watched the spreading wine puddle. After all was said and done, he felt he truly deserved that wine.
John tossed the shards into the fire. “Bless me!” he gasped, searching for a rag to mop up the wine. “Bless me, bless me. I never expected you to say that!” He stole a glance at Crispin and couldn’t seem to help a small smile. “I wish I had been there to see that. Better, I wish it had been me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” The blush to his face only grew more furiously warm. He threw himself from the stool and tried to pace in the small room.
On his knees and sopping up the mess, John sighed. “Alas. He is fairer than me, then?”
“No, he is—I am not having this conversation!”
“He is young. Is that it? Is that why you ask about boys? Do you worry you will be wanting—”
“God’s blood, John! No! A thousand times NO!”
“Then what? It was a kiss. A little kiss. It took you off guard. Perhaps you were a bit in your cups. Perhaps he reminded you a bit of a woman. You lost your head. It means nought.”
Could it have been those things? Crispin grasped at the notion. Grasped so hard he’d throttle the notion to death.
John tossed the rag to a corner and Crispin was reminded briefly of the bloody rags he had seen in Julian’s rooms. There was so much yet to be explained. Was the boy entirely innocent? His experiments, his notes. Dammit, but the boy was clever in his distractions! Did Crispin truly believe him about the astrologer? He certainly could have made that up.
John found another jug and brought it forth. “Ale,” he said, raising it. “I have a feeling we are not done drinking, you and I.” He raised his chin and drank a heavy dose, his knobbed throat rolling with several swallows. Crispin watched him for a moment until—
“My God! John!”
The jug was pulled away and John stared, swallowing before he choked. “What now?” he rasped, trying to clear his throat.
“Julian,” he said wonderingly. “I’ll be damned.” He clutched his friend’s shoulder. “I thank you for your hospitality, John. But I must take my leave.”
“What? But you haven’t finished your story! I want to hear about this kiss—”
“Later. For now, I must return to Westminster. There is something I must do.”
John stomped his foot. “You are the most maddening man I have ever met, Crispin Guest!”
Crispin smiled. For the first time, he was feeling much better. “And you are a good friend, John. God keep you.”
“He always does,” he sighed, reluctantly allowing Crispin to leave.
Crispin hurried, anxious to test his theory. But he did not make it more than a few paces from Rykener’s lodgings when someone familiar passed him on the other side of the lane. The mist, as always, grumbled along the way and made even close objects difficult to discern, but there was little mistaking Matthew Middleton, the goldsmith.
The Jew.
Crispin watched him hurry along under the eaves, trying to escape the lashing of wet snow sloppily winging on the wind. His furtive movements and the unmistakable glances over his shoulder urged Crispin to cast aside his earlier quest. Westminster could wait. His instincts told him to follow.
If Middleton was trying to be subtle, he was making a poor job of it. He seemed clearly too distracted to hide his movements. He bumped absentmindedly into the whores and thieves making their way to shelter in the dim afternoon. Whatever his mission, he seemed to know where he was going, for he never veered from a direct path before him, never stopping to assess the way. He knew it.
The Jew soon followed along the Bank and took the strip of mud overlooking the Thames, heading for the territory of the potter’s kilns.
There were few along the same path but Crispin managed to pace himself behind a cart, following in its shadow even as Middleton glanced quickly over his shoulder. He had not seen Crispin, and with a hand on his sheathed dagger, Crispin hurried away from the cart to slide into the darkness of an alley, peeking out to watch Middleton disappear into the potter’s village of kilns and hovels. Moving slowly after the man, he kept his distance and watched his quarry stride down the row. He passed Dickon’s hovel and picked over the muddy way, until he reached a familiar hut.
Crispin hung back, keeping his back against a wooden post upholding a rickety canopy. Middleton knocked at the door of Berthildus the Potter and waited until someone answered. When she appeared in the doorway, her face bloomed into shock. She looked urgently both ways down the busy avenue before pulling him inside.
Crispin moved. He was under her window in an instant.
“—did you come here?” he heard her say. “That was foolish, especially in the daytime.”
“No one suspects,” he said, exasperated. “Don’t be a fool.”