Crispin trudged up the stairs, weary in body and spirit, and abruptly pulled up short when he saw his door ajar.
He motioned for Jack to step back, drew his dagger, and kicked the door open.
A figure turned from the cold hearth. He was shadowed at first, but when the door opened wider and shed new light, Crispin nearly dropped his knife.
“Your grace!” He dropped to his knee to the duke of Lancaster and hastily sheathed his knife. Rising, he stepped in, pulling Jack along, and quickly closed the door. “My lord, why are you here?” And suddenly, Crispin felt his face go scarlet. Lancaster was seeing for himself the conditions in which he lived. The incongruous spectacle of the velvet-gowned duke standing in his lowly residence made him cringe with shame. “Why are you here?” he asked again, desperately.
Lancaster looked Crispin over before his eyes settled on Jack. The duke pulled out the one chair and sat. He laid his gloved hands on the rough surface of the table. Ruddy spots tinged his cheeks over a dark beard. “Well? Have you no wine?”
Crispin blinked, woke himself, and went to fetch his jug, hoping it still contained something drinkable. His heart clenched when he saw there was very little left in the chipped clay jug. He raised it and must have looked so stricken that the duke waved him off. “It doesn’t matter. Sit with me.”
Crispin slowly extracted the stool from its place beneath the table and gingerly sat. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Jack making himself as small as possible in the corner.
The duke wasted no time. “I received your missive and dispatched a representative as soon as possible, but you had already left Canterbury.”
“Our business there was done. We encountered your riders and told them … told them…”
“Indeed. They arrived a day before you did and told me all.”
Crispin picked at the edge of the table with his fingernail. “I was only doing my job. It is what I do.”
“Yes.” Even though he would not look up he could tell the duke was studying him attentively. “You are still angry with me.”
Should he lie? It didn’t seem to matter. “Yes,” he answered.
Lancaster chuckled. “Subtle as always, I see.”
“You used to value my honesty.”
“So I did.”
“And I yours.”
“Now Crispin. I never professed to be honest. Honesty in a prince is not his most highly prized commodity. It can, in fact, be to his detriment. I suppose the last time a monarch was truly honest was our own Saint Edward the Confessor. And look where it got him? Invasion by William the Conqueror.”
He rolled his fists on his thighs beneath the table. “History lesson duly noted. Why are you here?”
“Very well.” He settled back. “You have saved the life of my very valuable servant and have recovered the honor of my house that would have been scandalously damaged by that cur Courtenay, had his plot succeeded. Secreting the bones of Saint Thomas in my own brother’s tomb! The gall of the man!”
Crispin said nothing. Why are you here? WHY ARE YOU HERE! he screamed in his head.
“Deeds such as these require more than mere compensation.”
What?
“Indeed, I could pay you in coins, but…” He looked around the shabby room. His brows said it all. “Instead, I wish to offer you a post in my household.”
Crispin’s fists whitened under the hiding shadows of the table. “But…” The king had been explicit about his orders. No one was to succor him. No one. True, he had saved the life of the king and Richard had offered him back his knighthood and riches … if he would ingratiate himself in front of all the court. He had naturally refused and this had set Richard off on another tirade. He had told Crispin-shouted at him-that he would never be trusted, never be allowed back at court. What was different now?
“I know what the king declared,” said Lancaster, seeming to read his mind. “But this is a humble post. We would rarely see you. Something similar to what Chaucer sometimes does for me. Small jobs requiring a man of your skills. The compensation would be quite a bit more than you expect now.”
“None of these jobs would have anything to do with treason, would they?”
Lancaster leapt to his feet. “By God, Guest! I should strike you down!”
Crispin slowly rose. It did not do to sit while his lord stood. “It has been tried before. But I am like a cat. Nine lives.”
“How many left, I wonder?”
He shrugged. “No doubt Geoffrey gains from such employment. Though I rather thought he was spying for the king.” Lancaster’s face revealed nothing. “Well,” said Crispin. “King, crown; uncle, nephew. Little difference it makes.”
“You tread too fine a line.”
“Between life and death? Yes, it seems I am always treading that line, my lord.” He moved to the hearth, retrieved the tinder box, lit the small bits of straw, and tucked them under the peat. It only smoldered at first before the dark chunks of dried peat caught a flame. “I do not feel I can trust you, my lord. I would have thought you’d know that by now.”
“Crispin! You were like a son to me!”
“And you sacrificed me. No angel stayed your hand as they did for Abraham when he would have slain Isaac. No, my lord. I have had a taste of the king’s justice. It is not to my liking.”
“I offer you a chance at your rightful place again.”
“And he will not take it.”
They both turned toward the voice at the back of the room. Jack straightened his coat, the one Crispin had bought for him. “He has said his peace, your grace.”
“And what is this place you now inhabit, Crispin, when servants speak for their betters?”
“A place of trust,” Crispin answered, never moving his gaze from Jack’s. “Where the master will never sacrifice the servant for himself.”
Lancaster gathered himself as if he might strike down the both of them, but as quickly as his anger blossomed, his resolve seemed to wilt and he took a step back. “Will you never forgive me, Crispin?” His voice was unexpectedly soft.
He looked up at his lord then, the man who raised him, made him a knight. But as Geoffrey so succinctly put it, he was also a man who, by rights, could just as easily take it all away. Did such a man truly owe Crispin anything?
“On this journey,” said Crispin, “I have seen how the sin of vengeance can seep into the heart of an innocent and shred that life till the soul is left in tatters. I have no desire to see my own soul degenerate to such a state.” He felt Jack’s eyes on him, felt the warmth from his gaze. “And though I … I may find it hard to forgive, your grace, I find that it is not … impossible.” He lowered his eyes, unable to bear the expression in Lancaster’s steady gaze. “Give me time, my lord,” he said softly. “Perhaps in time, our debts to one another will have been paid.”
The slump of the duke’s shoulder and his drooping lids showed a more subdued demeanor. He gave a curt nod.
“Though I thank you for your kind offer,” said Crispin more lightly. “Today seems to be my day for propositions.”
Lancaster, now ill at ease, measured him, the room, and finally Jack. “What is your name, lad?” he said to fill the silence.
Jack straightened his shoulders. “I am Jack Tucker, sir. Apprentice Tracker.”
The corner of Lancaster’s mouth twitched, but he did not smile. Instead, he nodded to them both and gathered his cloak about him. “Then I must say my farewell, Crispin.” He took a step toward the door, paused, and without turning, said, “Whatever you may think of me, I was only doing what was best for the kingdom.”
Crispin looked at the floor. “So was I.”
Lancaster inclined his head. He grasped the door latch and was quickly out the door.
When it closed at last with a final click, Crispin collapsed into his chair. “I have done a very foolish thing. Again.”
Jack touched his arm. “No, sir. You stood up for yourself. I am proud to have witnessed it. ‘The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.’”