Crispin nodded and Jack bowed to both before skirting his way around them and trotting toward the cathedral gate.
When they were alone, Chaucer turned to his friend. “He’s a fine lad, is your Jack. He reminds me a little of you at that age.”
“I was never that age.”
Chaucer frowned. “This is damnable business, Cris. How was she killed?”
“By the sword.”
“God’s blood and bones!” Geoffrey muttered. “Who did it?”
“I do not know. Yet.”
Chaucer fell silent. Only the noise of their feet sucking in the muddy avenue accompanied the morning sounds of commerce. “Then … this is truly what you do now? Inquire about crimes?” Chaucer’s voice sounded hollow and surprised.
“What did you expect?”
Chaucer shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose … I just thought being this Tracker … I thought it might be a metaphor.”
He snorted. “Metaphor. Only you would think such.”
They walked several more silent paces until Geoffrey took a deep, sighing breath. “I also thought you would clap me in your arms like an old friend, Cris. And yet you continue cold as ice.”
He felt the hot blood creep up his neck. “You know why,” he said huskily.
“Afraid treason would rub off on me?”
The silent shopfronts and the gold-tinged street gave no respite to the look on Geoffrey’s face. “You knew I was still in London. Yet not one word from you.”
“True. Contact with you was, shall we say, discouraged. Especially by my wife. I think she did fear treason was somehow transferable.”
“For my part, I took the king’s words as Gospel. He said that those who gave me succor would suffer my same fate. I felt it best I have no contact with former friends.” He stopped and threw his head back, staring up at the misty morning sky. “Dammit, Geoffrey. I wanted no harm to come to you.”
“And no harm has.”
“You are still Lancaster’s man.”
“Yes. And you?”
Crispin furrowed his brow, toed the mud. “Not as much these days.”
“Oh? Is the well poisoned?”
“It’s just that … his grace and I … Lancaster … he … he…”
“Good Christ. If you’d rather not say-”
Crispin unclenched his hands and nodded stiffly. “I’d rather not.”
“So that subject is closed. But what of us? Too many nights we spent drinking together.” They both smiled and then quiet fell between them. The smell of mud and horse dung grew stronger in the rising light. A long time passed before Chaucer whispered, “I’m glad you’re alive and free. Those were the best tidings … and most unexpected, under the circumstances.”
“Yes,” he muttered. “I am alive.”
Chaucer toyed with the buttons on his gown. “So. Tracker, they call you. Tell me about this unusual title. Not a metaphor.”
He shrugged. “I find things. Documents. Jewelry. Even murderers on occasion.”
“That sounds like the sheriff’s job.”
“Have you met the sheriffs of London?”
His friend chuckled. “Indeed.”
“These are the tasks my clients would rather not trouble the sheriffs with, if you understand my meaning. Consider me a private sheriff, if you will.”
Geoffrey leaned into Crispin’s shoulder. “This murder was unexpected, but you said you came here on assignment for the archbishop of Canterbury. Are you in his permanent employ, then?”
“No. The assignment is temporary. And that’s how I would have it.”
“You always were your own man. You didn’t like following orders.”
“Do you?”
“I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
“That’s not the Geoff Chaucer I knew.”
“The Geoff Chaucer you knew is eight years older, with a wife and children.”
Crispin lowered his eyes. “How fares your good wife?”
“Well. And the children. We are happy in London.” A pause. “And … where in London do you reside these days?”
Crispin was used to saying it, but it somehow stung today voicing it. “I live on the Shambles above a tinker’s shop.”
His friend fell silent. Geoffrey’s hand slid toward his money pouch. It rested there a long time before he allowed his hand to fall away. “Can you … will you tell me your tale?”
“What tale should I be telling you?” Silence. Crispin looked sidelong at his friend, who seemed to be deciding what to ask.
Shopkeepers were just opening their doors, sweeping away the dew. Young apprentices and servants brought forth the wares and set them on tables. “Tell me a tale of long ago, Cris. Eight years ago, to be precise.”
Crispin watched Tucker’s back as the boy made his way toward the cathedral, legs working, arms swinging. “I know that you sometimes serve as the king’s spy. Don’t you know all my tales already?”
A sly smile curled the poet’s mustache. “By the saints! How did you ever discover that?”
Crispin snorted. “I’m the Tracker. Remember?”
“Well.” Chaucer looked behind him. Crispin followed suit. No one of any consequence there on Mercy Lane but the usual merchants and shoppers, from lowly to upper class. “When I do spy for the king,” said Geoffrey quietly, “it is hardly ever on these shores. Only abroad.”
“Indeed.” Crispin kept his eye on Jack far ahead. He offered an enigmatic smile. “You’ve already told me you are aware of the plot that felled me. The plot devised to depose King Richard and put Lancaster on the throne.”
“Yes,” Chaucer said steadily, quietly.
“Then what is your question?”
The poet kept his voice unnaturally low. “Since you were accused of high treason, if you were truly guilty, why did Richard let you live?”
“Oh, I was guilty.”
Chaucer stopped and grabbed Crispin’s arm, pulling him into the shadow of an overhanging eave. All trace of amusement left his face. “I do not understand.”
“I was guilty, but there was no plot. The plot was a sham to catch the enemies of the throne. I was only one of many fish caught in the net. Lancaster begged the king for my life and the king granted it. With … provisions.”
“That your barony, lands, and knighthood be stripped from you.”
He looked at Geoffrey’s solemn expression. “Were I a Franciscan I would have been utterly ecstatic.”
“What did you do?”
“I took to the streets. And then I starved.” He nodded to himself, remembering. “I became good at that. You see, I couldn’t quite believe my predicament at first. It wasn’t until I was on my last legs that I begged food at the alms doors of many of London’s churches.”
Chaucer kicked at a stone and they both watched it bounce along the avenue. “Why did you not take to the highways and become an outlaw? You would not have starved.”
“Some men are made for that. Not me. I preferred to earn my keep honestly. And I did so. My first job was as a gong farmer.” Chaucer grimaced in sympathy. Crispin said it with relish, almost enjoying the slap of the pronouncement. “Mucking a privy isn’t so bad. It’s mucking hundreds that makes it unbearable.”
Chaucer checked behind him again. “But what of your other skills? Could you not have gained employment as a scribe?”
“I did. Eventually. And an accounting clerk. But I did so for merchants. Court was closed to me.”
“Then how did you fall into … into…”
“My present occupation? It began as a simple challenge and then evolved. And now it is my sole means of employment. It does not pay well, but I find it intellectually stimulating. And I am my own man.” He glanced up at the cathedral. “Most of the time.”
Chaucer smiled and stroked his beard. “This is a finer tale than I could ever weave even from my fertile imagination.”
“Just keep me out of your writings.” He stopped and looked up at the church ahead. “I have my work to do. Have I satisfied your curiosity?”
“Satisfied? You’ve only piqued it.” He grinned, his old self again. “May I go with you? I’ve never watched a murder inquiry before.”