The man shuffled, peeking at Jack burrowed deep into Crispin’s cloak. “Odo,” he said in his gravelly voice.
“You’re Odo?”
The man nodded. He fumbled at his tattered cloak. His fingernails were crusted with dirt and something lighter, like white dust. No. Not dust or dirt. Clay.
“You’re one of the potters in London.”
The man nodded again.
“But. . what-?”
“Hugh was my friend,” he rasped. “I followed. Bad, bad men hurt Hugh.” His voice winced higher and a sob escaped.
“Hugh? Berthildus’s son, you mean?”
Odo nodded.
“You. . couldn’t protect him.”
He shook his head sorrowfully.
“So you took it upon yourself to protect other boys.”
He nodded.
“You followed me here.”
Odo nodded.
“Now you understand that I am not one of the bad men.”
He bowed. He reached a hand forward as if wanting to pet Jack, who cringed back, but then Odo let his large hand fall to his side. “Bad men not hurt boy?”
“No. We stopped the bad men once and for all. They won’t hurt anyone else ever again.”
Odo considered this and turned his face toward the burning house. Crispin looked, too. Watched flames lick at the stones and timbers that had once brought such joy to his young life. Home. But that such evil had occurred in his beloved manor. . He was glad to see it in ashes. Better that.
Odo turned back to Crispin. The man smiled. “You are friend.”
But before he could speak again, they heard shouts closing on them. Odo looked up and with a fearful face, quickly disappeared back into the woods.
“Wait!” Crispin stared into the darkness of tangled boughs and listened for his footfalls but could hear nothing. As big as the man was he was as silent as the night itself.
“Unbelievable,” he said to the icy air.
“Then. . he’s not a Golem?”
Crispin hugged the shivering boy tighter. “No. There is no Golem, Jack. Only that poor hulk of a man.”
“He. . he was only trying to help them boys, then?”
“Yes, it appears so.”
“Merciful Jesus. What a world is this!”
“Verily,” he murmured.
The sound of shouting and of many feet slogging through the snow reached them and suddenly, figures clambered up the hill and stopped, looking at Crispin and Jack in bewilderment. Crispin didn’t even try getting to his feet. In his best courtly manner, he said, “If you would be so kind as to take us to the king’s manor. I urgently need to speak with his grace the duke of Lancaster.”
During their brief journey, Crispin glanced back at what was left of the manor, his heart wrenching with the dying glow of it. The smell of smoke in his nose would not soon leave him.
When they reached the king’s manor, the king was mercifully abed. That meant Crispin would not have to face him. But facing Lancaster was no better. After much pleading, Crispin and Jack were ushered none too gently to the duke in his royal chambers. And when Lancaster’s eyes fastened on Crispin, his face darkened. He studied Crispin’s singed and bloody clothes and Jack’s nakedness. “What happened?” he asked of his guards.
“There was a fire, your grace. At the Guest. . I mean, the de Risley Manor.”
Lancaster glared. “Was it contained?”
“No, your grace. It looks as if. .” He flicked an awkward glance toward Crispin. “It. . it burned to the ground.”
“Is this your doing?” he growled at Crispin.
“No, your grace. But I was there.”
“And what of Lord de Risley?”
The guard shook his head. “Many died, your grace. We believe de Risley was amongst them. He was in the mews where the fire appears to have started.”
“In the mews?”
“No one knows why he was there, your grace. The servants said that he often. . entertains there.”
Lancaster’s sharp glare never left Crispin’s face. “Very well. Leave Guest here.”
“What of his servant, your grace?”
His eye fell on a cowering Jack who was wearing Crispin’s cloak. “Leave him here, but bring him some clothes. A shirt and a cloak, at least.”
The guard bowed and left. Lancaster himself closed the door to his apartments and walked slowly toward the fire. Crispin felt the heat melt the permanent chill but he would not take his encircling arm away from Jack.
Lancaster did not speak for several moments. The anger in his eyes told Crispin why and he waited for his lord to do the talking first.
“Not your doing but you were there.”
“It. . it is difficult to explain, your grace. De Risley was the murderer I sought. Now he is dead. He started the fire.”
“Is there proof of this?”
Crispin shook his head.
“Master Crispin saved my life!” cried Jack, startling both men.
Lancaster gave him a look of incomprehension. Crispin supposed it wasn’t often that the lowliest servant ever dared speak to him let alone shout. Though Jack always seemed of a mind to confront Lancaster.
Gaunt approached the quivering boy and bent at the knee to look him in the face. Crispin could feel Jack trembling where he clutched at his cotehardie. “He saved your life? Tell me.”
Jack did, starting with the body of the young boy Crispin found and how Jack decided to lay a trap but never expected to become trapped himself. With comical gestures using Crispin’s cloak like a costume, Jack made it sound as if Giles and Crispin had fought hand to hand, that it had been a chivalrous battle to the death. It sounded to Crispin like the most heroic tripe any minstrel had ever croaked.
When Jack was finished, Lancaster slowly straightened. He rubbed his beard like a carpenter sanding it smooth. “Giles de Risley toyed with boys, did he?”
“As did his cousin.”
“Did he kill that astrologer, Cornelius van der Brooghes?”
With an unpleasant smile of satisfaction, Crispin said, “Yes. I witnessed it.”
“May he rot in Hell.”
Crispin vaguely recalled a strange fiery figure rising from the brazier. “I think that a safe wager.”
“What will you do now?”
“We need a place to rest for the night,” he said wearily. “We will leave for London at sunrise. But Jack, here, has been through much this night and he is in need of a dry place to sleep.”
“And just where did you intend this quiet place, Master Guest? This is no inn.”
“With your permission, your grace, if we may stay with your. . your servants.” It had taken the rest of his courage to mouth that aloud. To beg to sleep with Lancaster’s servants! Surely the duke would accede to that.
His dark eyes studied Crispin’s reddening face for some time. “I see. And then?”
He raised his chin but not his eyes. “I must go to the Jewish physician. He hired me to recover something for him that is now lost. I must inform him of that fact.”
“Before you inform me?” asked a voice behind him.
Crispin whipped around. The stranger from the carriage stood in the doorway to Lancaster’s inner chamber. Crispin was instantly on his guard. He longed to unsheathe his blade but there had been enough mayhem this night. Instead he said, “What is he doing here?”
“Your betters, Crispin,” warned Lancaster. “The Bishop Edmund is my guest.”
“Tut, your grace,” said the man. “Master Guest and I have met before. Under trying circumstances, to be sure, though never formally. I am Edmund Becke, a humble bishop from Yorkshire, on a mission.” He bowed. “Am I given to understand you have been successful in your trials? Did you, by any chance, obtain the object I desired?”
“The parchments you wanted?” The man frowned at Crispin’s deliberate release of information. Too bad if he had wanted to keep it a secret from Lancaster. “They didn’t belong to you. They should go to their rightful owner.”
“Rightful owner?” Becke seemed genuinely puzzled. “I am the rightful owner.”
“I beg to differ. Parchments in Hebrew? Could those possibly be yours?”