Iron cressets burned, lighting his way, and there was occasional laughter muffled behind closed doors as he passed apartment after apartment.
He waited in the shadows, his hood heavy over his face.
A scuffled step. Crispin raised his head and saw both figures approaching; the older man and a reluctant Jack Tucker close behind him.
“This way,” hissed Jacob, and Crispin and Jack followed his quick pace.
Crispin had been curious as to what the apartments of a Jew would look like. A certain uneasiness warred within his gut. Would it be odd and foreign like the homes of Saracens in the Holy Land, full of exotic smells and strange furnishings? His heart quickened when the door opened, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the fact of a normal room melted away his apprehension to disappointment.
The hearth burned low. Jacob took a poker and urged the flames to life, adding a log. Crispin sneered at the wood in envy. He had no logs for his fire. Only peat and the meager sticks Jack bought from the wood sellers or managed to scavenge.
Jacob used a straw to light several candles. As the room glowed, Crispin glanced about. Bright drapery hung on the walls, giving the plaster a cheery appearance. Shadowed alcoves pricked Crispin’s curiosity, where tables with various beakers and bowls stood ready. Except for the numerous bottles and canisters and the odd smells emanating from that direction, the room looked to be as any ordinary physician’s parlor. A door to the left must have led to a bed chamber. Not bad for a Jew, mused Crispin grudgingly.
The chamber door opened suddenly.
Crispin’s hand reached for his dagger. A young man, thin and pale, stepped through the opening. At first Crispin thought him to be a page, but the yellow rouelle on his dark, ankle-length gown soon snuffed that notion. He wore a scarlet sash about his waist and from it hung a gold chain with a key, a money pouch, and a small dagger. A thick, gold chain on his chest seemed an attempt to hide the rouelle. The youth glared with narrowed, jewel-green eyes. “Mon père.” His voice was harsher than Crispin expected from his slight features. It was almost hoarse. His brown hair hung limply on either side of his cheeks down to the jaw. A dark cap perched on the crown of his head.
Jacob nodded toward the lad. “This is Julian. My son.”
The boy did not acknowledge his father, but continued his mistrustful stare at Crispin.
Jacob frowned. “Is this how I taught you hospitality? How do you treat guests?”
Julian gritted his teeth and shuffled to a table near the high window. He poured four shares of wine into bowls, bringing the first to his father. When he settled his own to his chest, he leaned against the wall and studied Crispin from afar.
“Qui sont ces mendiants?” Julian asked derisively.
Exasperated, Jacob hissed at him, “English!”
Crispin stiffened. “Nous ne sommes pas des mendiants,” he answered. His lips curled into a lopsided grin when Julian drew back sharply, spilling his wine.
Jacob smiled. “Many Englishmen speak French. That will teach you to better guard your tongue.”
Julian recovered and sipped his bowl, eyes wandering toward the dark window. His cheek was still pink.
“I apologize for my son,” said Jacob with a sigh. He gestured Crispin to a chair. “He is often quick to judge and slow to change. It is the fault of youth, I am afraid.”
“I would rather honest hate than useless flattery,” said Crispin over his wine. “ ‘People generally despise where they flatter.’ ”
Jacob chuckled, noting Julian’s discomfiture at their speaking about him. “You quote Aristotle. How interesting.”
Crispin lowered the wine from his lips. “I am surprised you would recognize the words of a pagan philosopher, Master Jacob. I was not aware that your. . people. . would read such men.”
Jacob waved a hand vaguely. “It was Jewish scholars who rescued the words of pagan philosophers from obscurity.” Crispin narrowed his eyes at that, but Jacob went on, despite Crispin’s obvious skepticism. “I have learned many things from many sources, Maître Guest. Though the Scriptures and the words of the ancient rabbis resonate in my craft, I realized quite early in my schooling that not all the wisdom of the ages belongs to the Jews. . merely most of it.”
Julian snorted a laugh but hid his expression in his bowl.
Jack hovered behind Crispin’s chair, gulping his wine before Crispin twisted around and took the bowl from him. “Master Jacob,” said Crispin tightly. “Perhaps if we can get to the business at hand. .”
Julian grumbled. “I do not know why you had to bring this Gentile into our suite, Father,” he muttered. “Who cares if something is stolen from a Jew, after all?” Julian fixed his glare on Crispin. The boy had an evil glint in his eye. “A man who does such work for money. Is that not why there is a sheriff?”
Crispin stood. “Then call in the sheriff. Here.” He reached for the coin pouch and dropped the offending bag onto a table. “Take back your coin, Master Jacob.”
Jacob looked beside himself. He touched his forehead and groaned. “You see what you have done?” he hissed at his son.
“I do not care! We do not belong in England. Their laws are a disgrace. We defile ourselves by being here! We belong in Avignon where a Jew is treated with dignity.”
“You know nothing!” he hissed at the boy. He turned entreating eyes to Crispin. “Maître Guest, I implore you. I need your help. London needs your help.”
He gave Julian a stern look. “I would counsel your son to keep his arguments to himself from now on.”
Julian pressed forward, opening his mouth as if to speak, when Jacob wheeled on him. “You will be still!” Surprised, the boy blinked rapidly and clamped his lips shut. The fist at his side trembled.
Jacob nodded. “Maître Guest. I apologize for such an unruly household. My wife died when he was only an infant. I fear that he did not receive the benefit of Patience from a mother’s touch as perhaps he should have done. Please, sit. Have more wine. Julian, bring a stool for the servant boy.”
“You are enigmatic, sir,” Crispin offered as Julian did as bid. “At first, you tell me that something dangerous has been stolen from you. And then you tell me your theft involved mere parchments. And just now, you intimate that London is in danger. I think it might be best to get to the point.”
The firelight painted Jacob’s white face with deeply etched lines of age and worry. Julian had eased into a folding seat and watched his father with pursed lips and glittering eyes.
“I am certain, Maître Guest, that you have been schooled in the sciences. You seem to be a well-educated man.”
“My education would be beside the point.”
“Oh no. I do not think so.” Jacob settled himself deeper into his cushioned chair. “It is the very point. Have you ever heard of your Englishman William of Ockham?”
Surprised that the Jew had, he did not show it on his face. “Indeed. It is part and parcel to my personal philosophy. Lex parsimoniae. ‘Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.’”
A slight clearing of a throat behind him. He raised a brow toward Jack. “It means ‘entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity.’ ”
“ ‘The simplest explanation is the best’ ” offered Julian.
Crispin glanced at the young Jew, who gave him a triumphant smirk. He almost returned an admiring smile. Turning his metal wine bowl in his hand and feeling the raised designs under his fingertips, Crispin added, “Aristotle also coined: ‘A likely impossibility is always preferable to an unconvincing possibility.’ ” Julian wore an approving expression before he seemed to remember himself and lost it again. “I have learned that truth is truth, Master Jacob,” Crispin continued, “no matter the age, no matter the philosopher.”