“Be still, Crispin Guest! If I were a better friend I should backhand you for the sorrowful fool you are!”
Crispin blinked at him, mute.
“Can you not see the good you have done to this old town?” Gilbert went on. “Can’t you see the countless lives you have saved, the innocent souls you have protected? Bah! You are drunk, but such foolish prattling comes out of your mouth even when you are sober. Wake up! This may be your lot, but a man can make the best of any situation. I have seen you crawl forth from the very gutter and make yourself anew. Who else in this town is a Tracker, eh? No one. If a man needs someone to help him find a lost necklace or a stolen parchment, they have no one to go to. The sheriff? Not unless they had the money to bribe them. But you’d do it. You’d say it was for the coin, but I know you better than that. It’s for the honor of the thing. Yours and theirs. What man can ferret out a puzzle like you? These wretched sheriffs? They are only aldermen. Merchants. What do they know of men’s hearts and the cunning therein? Who amongst them can look at a corpse and know the nature of his death and the manner of it? None, I say. None but you. But you would wallow in your own pity until it sucks you down like a peat bog. Well, Master Guest.” He grabbed Crispin’s arm and hauled him to the door, kicking it open until they were both slapped in the face by the cold. “I’ll hear no more of it this night. I’ll get you home where you can sleep it off. And the next time I see you I had better see a humble face and an apology for such churlishness on your tongue. And then no more will be said of it.”
Crispin wanted to say much, to refute Gilbert’s bald derision. But even in the muddiness of his wine-soaked mind, he could discern the truth of it. He clapped his mouth shut instead and allowed Gilbert to drag him home, push him up the icy steps to prevent him from breaking his neck as he desired, and dumped him on his bed. Crispin vaguely recalled him banking his coals before the door shut and all was quiet again. In the haze of drunkenness and sleep, he wondered if he would remember any of this come morning, hoping that it was, perhaps, all a dream.
But in the morning, his head felt cracked open with a pike, with the added accompaniment of devils poking at his eyeballs with pitchforks. His belly told him to get up quickly and empty it into his chamber pot before he soiled his linens, and he jerked to his feet, pulled the pot from its place beneath his bed, and did just that. When it seemed he was hollow again, he pushed the disgusting pot away and wiped his lips. He sat back on his bum, resting his wrists loosely on his upraised knees, and tried a shaky sigh. His head still pounded but not as badly as before, and the perspiration on his face cooled his fevered brow.
He almost questioned why he had allowed himself to get this way when his memories returned to him, and along with it, his feelings of helplessness. But strangely, a tirade from Gilbert began to filter through the self-pity and he took stock. Yes, he supposed he could succumb to futility, but Gilbert was right. He could not solve all of London’s woes, but he could find a way to stop Giles. He merely had to think it through. He could make the sheriffs see reason. Giles would slip in some way. The arrogant always did. Crispin tried not to think that more innocent lives might be sacrificed to it, but in the end, Giles would get his.
He pushed himself forward and used the bed to rise. He waited a moment to see if his stomach would churn again and was pleased that it did not appear to do so.
So Giles’s astrologer-dead astrologer, he corrected-had stolen the Jews’ parchments. But when he questioned him on the fate of the Golem, he did not know what Crispin was talking about. Surely it was no lie. He had spilled his guts about everything else. There would be no need to lie about this. And if this was the case, then they had nothing to do with a Golem. But if that were so, who did?
Crispin cast an eye toward his wine jug on the windowsill. Dare he? At least to get the sour taste of vomit from his mouth, surely. He took up the jug and drank from its lip. That was better. It helped to clear his head, at least that’s what he told himself.
Now what was the next step? Plan what to do about Giles. Giles had been waiting for the stars to align or some such nonsense. To what end? He was planning something. Did he murder because of the position of the stars? Tonight, at the feast of Saint Nicholas, something was supposed to happen. Then perhaps Crispin had best return to Westminster-
He touched his cotehardie and searched the small room for sign of Lancaster’s tabard. And then he remembered. He had tossed it to the ground in a fit of anger and some beggar had made off with it. Well, good for him. He would go without. Perhaps Bill Wodecock would help him enter the palace regardless.
But something on the table caught his eye. A small scrap of parchment. He recognized Jack’s weak scrawl. The boy was learning his letters, and his writing was no smooth scribe’s hand, to be sure. Yet as he read, his heart stopped.
Goode Master Cryspyn,
Synce you wyre out of sorts last night, I got it in me head to set a trap. I haff made m’self known to Lord de Risley and lyke the curr he ys, he has agreed to take me to Sheen and we will be leeving early the morn of the Feest of Nickolas. But do not fret. I know what he is about. Just make certain to bring the sheriffs so we can cotch hym!
I am your devout servant,
Jack Tucker
19
Crispin stared at the letter. For how long, he did not know. His hand shook as he let the parchment slip through his fingers. The first word from his mouth was a whispered, “No.”
Jack. That fool, Jack. God in heaven. What had Crispin done?
He flung open his door and raced down the steps. Blindly, with snow smacking his face and eyes, he ran up the street toward the frosty edifice of Newgate. He didn’t quite remember crossing the threshold, or pounding on the door, or just why that great oaf William was pushing him back and why the man suddenly had a black eye.
But Crispin seemed to come to his senses when he was standing in the sheriff’s chambers, breathing hard and raggedly, heard but did not feel the fat logs crackle in the hearth, and the scowl on Exton’s fish face and the nervous finger drumming of Froshe’s stubby little digits on his bejeweled belt.
“You come here, thrashing your way through our men,” Exton was saying, but Crispin cut him off by slamming his hands on the table.
“I need a horse!”
“What, by the blessed Virgin, do you mean barging in here?” Froshe suddenly grew some backbone, only it was entirely the wrong time. Crispin glared at him, which made Froshe take a step back.
The Fishmonger narrowed his eyes. “You had better have information on that child killer, Master Guest. Or this tirade of yours might be better served in a cell.”
Exton, too, seemed to have learned a thing or two, except now there was no time! “Will you listen to me! I need a horse. I must rescue my servant Jack. He has been abducted by that very child murderer.”
Exton came swiftly around the table. “And who is the murderer?”
“Giles de Risley. Now will you give me a horse?”
“Giles de Risley? You mean Lord de Risley? Of Sheen? Are you mad?”
“He confessed it. His man confessed it. It is he. Only there is no proof. But he will kill my servant if you don’t give me a goddamned horse!”
Froshe rustled his considerable jowls. “There is no need for blasphemous language, Master Guest.”
“Help me. Come with me to Sheen and see this despicable dog for yourselves.”
Exton took his seat and Froshe followed suit. They were more concerned with studying the contents of their table with its many parchments and seals. “I am certain this all seems quite urgent to you. But you must understand. We have only been in our office for two months and to accuse one of the king’s courtiers in his own house? No, no. That would be intolerable.”