“So this man lives in the Thistle without anyone’s knowing who he is. Curious.”
Jack gestured with his knife. Pieces of meat pie flew from the blade’s tip. “I thought so, too. ‘Who is this knave?’ I thought to m’self. So at dawn when he left his lodgings, I went up to his room and had another little look round.”
Crispin leaned forward and slowly bit into the greasy sausage that Jack handed him. A dribble of grease ran down his chin but he wiped it neatly with his hand. “Indeed. What did you find?”
Jack stared at the ceiling and chewed as if picturing the room before him. “A right strange arrangement it was, I don’t mind saying,” he said, mouth full. “He had all manner of papers lying about. They looked like the same writing we saw before. I would have taken one for you, but you said before you couldn’t read it and he might have missed it. In his trunk he had all sorts of strange foreign clothes. Smelled funny, too.”
“How do you mean ‘strange’?”
“Robes all in silk. Sashes. No coat or houppelande. Only them robes. They all smelled like a mince pie.”
“Robes, eh? Like something in a church window?”
“Aye. That’s clever, that.” He smiled at Crispin’s description. “Aye. Like them three kings going off to Bethlehem.”
And smelling like spices. Exotic spices. What was such a man doing with Philippa Walcote? It was time to find out.
7
Against Jack’s admonishment, Crispin rose early the next morning. He shaved quickly and carefully over his bruised chin, and examined his eye in the brass mirror. It wasn’t as bad as yesterday. At least he could open it fully now, but the bruise was still dark and puffy. If he could have afforded it, he would have called in a barber to leech the bruising from his eye. But as it was, cold compresses would have to suffice.
Crispin left his lodgings and plunged into London’s weather. Rain fell in indiscriminate sheets, pelting some streets and ignoring others. Huddled in his hood, Crispin trotted along the muddy avenue, grateful when the Thistle arose from the persistent drizzle. He ducked in the door and shook out his cloak, using the opportunity to scan the smoky room.
He saw the innkeeper and approached him in a swift, sure gait.
The man turned, and Crispin thought he detected the merest hint of recognition on his face.
“My good sir,” said the innkeeper. “How can I serve you?”
Crispin’s right hand toyed with his dagger’s hilt while he clutched the man’s arm with the left. “You can serve me right well,” he said in low tones. The man alternated between staring at Crispin’s hand as it tightened on his arm and his face. “You can tell me the name of the man in that corner room upstairs.”
“I-I told you before. There ain’t no one in that—”
“Then let us go now. If what you say is true, there will be no chest of clothes, no papers, no hearth embers—”
“No!” He pulled back from Crispin, yanking them both away from the stairs. “He’ll kill me!” he whispered.
Crispin let him go and stood back. He patted his dagger. “Either him or me.”
The man scanned the room and motioned for Crispin to come into the kitchens.
A short man sat beside a huge kettle hanging from an iron rod swung over the fire. The aroma of savory meat and spices bubbled from the steamy cauldron’s depths. Two assistants argued while they clattered iron pans and wooden bowls in a wide washtub, scrubbing the pans with large bristle brushes.
The noisy room seemed to convince the innkeeper he would not be overheard. In fact, Crispin found it difficult to hear the man.
“He paid me a right good sum to tell folk he weren’t there,” said the innkeeper, mouthing his words in exaggerated motions. “And he threatened me, too, I don’t mind saying.”
“Who is he?”
“He calls himself Smith.”
“‘Calls himself’?”
“Can’t be his true name. He’s a foreigner.”
“From where?”
“Can’t rightly say. Maybe he’s a Moor. He’s dark enough.”
“Maybe.” Crispin took a halpens from his pouch and gave it to the man. “It isn’t gold, but perhaps you will hold your tongue about my asking.”
The man nodded and clutched the coin in a whitening fist. “There’s no need to tell the gentleman aught.”
Crispin spent all day in the Thistle’s raucous tavern, drinking wine from a chipped horn cup and picking periodically from several pullet carcasses before him, now cold, their grease congealing on a wooden plank.
He sat in a far corner against the wall, watching patrons come and go while the frantic innkeeper moved nervously between the tables trying not to look at him.
Sitting low on his bench, Crispin spotted a hunched figure entering the tavern and trying to lose himself in the crowd. The man glanced once at Crispin then darted forward with all intentions of escape, until Crispin stuck out his foot. The man tumbled to the floor amid the laughter of those seated nearby and looked back over his shoulder from his place in the filthy straw.
Crispin looked down at him, his lips twisted in a smile. “Master Lenny. I thought it was you. Up to your old tricks?”
“Why it’s Master Crispin!” Lenny rose and shook the straw from his tattered cloak. “I didn’t notice it was you, sir.” He started to sit beside Crispin, seemed to think better of it, then gingerly took a place beside him after all. He cringed but managed a weak smile when Crispin put his arm around him.
“Skulking in a tavern,” said Crispin. “You can’t be up to any good.”
“Well, I could say the same of you”—he glanced up at Crispin’s face; his smile fell—“but I won’t.”
“How long has it been, Lenny, since I last sent you to gaol?”
“Oh, nigh on eight months, Master Crispin. The sheriff released me two months ago. I ain’t been arrested since. And look.” He raised his hand and wiggled the fingers. “I ain’t lost a hand or ear yet. Thanks to you, I hear tell.”
Crispin looked away. “What would the sheriff want with your grimy hand?”
Lenny laughed. He ran his hand over the stubble on his pointed chin. His hair receded, leaving a wide dome atop and stringy dark hair dangling down around it. His neck was thin and crooked like a buzzard’s. “I reckon you’re right there, m’lord.”
“Not a lord, Lenny.” He patted Lenny’s shoulder and released him. It had been many a year since he was “Lord” anything.
He cast his thoughts back to the present and gazed at Lenny. “I don’t think I’ll tell the sheriff I saw you,” said Crispin.
“Ah now! Master Crispin, that’s right Christian of you. Anything you want, anything you need, you just call on old Lenny.”
“I might need you at that, Lenny. Where do you call home these days?”
“Oh, here and there.”
“You don’t seem to understand. I may have a job for you. I know this inn is one of your favorite spots to cut a purse.”
“Ah now, Master Crispin! Such lies to tell about old Lenny. I think me feelings are hurt.”
“Put your feelings aside. I want information.”
“It’s that way, is it? Well then.” He sidled closer and spoke in low tones so that Crispin bent over. Lenny’s harsh, foul breath hissed in Crispin’s ear. “What’s that you’re looking for? Old Lenny knows, he does. He knows him what comes and him what goes.”
Crispin smiled. “I’d like you to keep an eye on the place for a few days. If anything unusual happens, let me know. I’m particularly looking for a foreign man. Looks like a Saracen.”